
SECOND DOPY, 
1699. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

Chap,...— Copyright No. 

“—IS 


I 6> 


i 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




















PICCIOLA 


BY 


JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE 

/ 

(known under the name OF X. B. saintine) 


TRANSLATED AND EDITED 


ABBY L. ALGER 

1 


BOSTON, U.S.A. 

GINN & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 

Cbe SUbentrum prefis 

i8 99 

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-73 

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25224 

Copyright, 1899 
By GINN & COMPANY 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


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PREFACE. 


Picciola , the touching story of a prisoner and a flower, 
is always new and fresh, although it has been reprinted in 
the original French more than twoscore times, and has 
been translated into every language of Europe since it 
first appeared in 1836. 

Such success was little expected by its modest author, 
who wrote it for his own satisfaction alone, but was finally 
persuaded to print it by a friend, who took up the manu- 
script by chance and could not lay it down until he had 
read it through. 

Saintine received the Monthyon prize from the French 
Academy and the ribbon of the Legion of Honor in recog- 
nition of the merits of Picciola , but these honors did not 
give him such pleasure as the thought that some real 
prisoner might find consolation in his book. This hope 
was fulfilled when Louis Napoleon wrote to him from the 
fortress of Ham, where he was imprisoned, that Picciola 
had been both a lesson and a solace to him, had shown 
him that a philosopher has hidden treasures in his heart 
which may enable him to enjoy happiness under any cir- 
cumstances. 

In his own preface to the work the author says : "My 
book is neither a drama nor a romance. 

iii 


IV 


PREFACE. 


" My story is a simple one, so simple that perhaps no 
writer ever tried his hand on a subject of such narrow 
limits. My heroine is such a little thing ! Not that I 
would throw the blame on her in advance in case of fail- 
ure; Heaven forbid! Do you lay any value upon the 
truth of facts ? I assure you that my tale is a true one, 
and I offer this as some recompense for all that you may 
miss in it. 

"You remember that kind and gracious lady who died 
not long ago, — the Countess de Charney, — an incredible 
mixture of sweetness and audacity, of gentleness and 
resolution ; she was a terrible lioness, whom a child could 
calm with a word ; she was a timid dove, capable of endur- 
ing tempest and storm to defend her loved ones. 

" Such as I knew her, others knew her long before I 
did. It is with lively pleasure that I tell you of this noble 
creature ; I shall but too seldom have opportunity to speak 
of her again. She is not the chief heroine of this story. 

" During your one visit to her at Belleville, where she 
made her permanent home, for her husband’s tomb is 
there (and her own, too, now), several things must have 
struck you as strange. For instance, the presence of a 
white-haired old man-servant seated beside her at table. 
You seemed amazed to hear this person, with his uncouth 
gestures, his common manners, address the daughter of 
the Countess so familiarly, and to hear the elegant and 
high-bred young woman, beautiful as her mother before 
her, answer the old man with deference and respect, call- 
ing him godfather ; she is indeed his goddaughter. 

" Then, perhaps you remember a withered, faded flower, 
contained in a rich case ; and when you asked its history, 


PREFACE. 


V 


do you recall the sad look which swept over the poor 
widow’s face ? I think she even let your question go un- 
answered : it would have taken too long to answer it, and 
the story could not be told to indifferent ears. 

" I will give you your answer now. 

" Honored by the affection of that rare woman, I have 
more than once sat between her and her faithful old ser- 
vant, face to face with that precious relic, listening to long 
and detailed accounts which moved me strangely. I have 
long had in my possession the manuscripts of the Count, 
his correspondence, and the double journal of his prison, 
on linen and on paper. I have not lacked documentary 
proof and historic evidence. 

" I treasured those stories in my memory; I studied those 
manuscripts attentively ; I copied precious extracts from 
that correspondence ; from that journal I derived my in- 
spiration, and, if I succeed in transmitting to your soul 
the emotion which seized me at the sight of all these 
tokens of the prisoner, I need not fear for the fate of my 
book. 

" One word more. Here are no stirring incidents, no 
thrilling love tale. And yet there is love in what I am 
about to relate ; but it is only the love of a man for . . . 
Shall I tell you ? . . . No, read, and you will learn.” 

The supreme lesson of the story, brought out by the 
author with cumulative skill and force, is the marvellous 
power of quietude, loneliness, and concentration in devel- 
oping the affections of the soul. At liberty in the varied 
intercourse of the world, attention and sympathy scattered 
fugitively over a thousand shifting objects become care- 
less, superficial, frivolous, and transient. But when one is 


VI 


PREFACE. 


shut up in the enforced solitude of a prison, his spirit first 
recoils upon itself from the dreadful monotony, and then 
grows conscious of its unfathomable capacity and demand 
for fellowship. Under these circumstances, give it even 
the simplest and humblest object around which to entwine 
the yearning tendrils of its love, and it will idealize that 
object until it grows divine and calls forth an incredible 
wealth of devotion. This great truth Picciola teaches 
with a charm equally emphatic and persuasive. This of 
itself alone lends the work extraordinary value as an edu- 
cational influence of the highest moral order. 


A. L. A. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK FIRST. 

PAGE 

Chapter I i 

Chapter II 7 

Chapter III 15 

Chapter IV 23 

Chapter V . ... .30 

Chapter VI 35 

Chapter VII 41 

Chapter VIII 48 

Chapter IX -52 

Chapter X 58 

Chapter XI 66 

Chapter XII .. . 73 

Chapter XIII 76 

Chapter XIV 80 

Chapter XV 86 

BOOK SECOND. 

Chapter I 91 

Chapter II 95 

Chapter III 104 

Chapter IV 108 

Chapter V 1 1 1 

Chapter VI 114 

Chapter VII 118 

Chapter VIII 123 

vii 


CONTENTS. 


viii 

BOOK THIRD. 

PAGE 

Chapter I 130 

Chapter II 132 

Chapter III . . 136 

Chapter IV 140 

Chapter V 145 

Chapter VI 150 

Chapter VII 158 

Conclusion 163 


PICCIOLA. 


BOOK FIRST. 


CHAPTER I. 

Count Charles Veramont de Charney, whose name 
is doubtless not yet forgotten by the learned men of 
our time, and might, if need were, be found inscribed in 
the books of the imperial police , 1 was born with a vast 
facility for learning ; but his noble intellect, trained in 
the schools, had acquired the habit of discussion. He 
argued far more than he observed. In short, he was bet- 
ter adapted for a philosopher than a scientist. 

When he was twenty-five years old, he was complete 
master of seven languages. Unlike many worthy poly- 
glots who seem to have labored to acquire various idioms 
merely to display their ignorance and inanity to foreigners 
as well as to their fellow-countrymen (for a man may be 
a fool in several languages), Count Charney made use of 
these preparatory studies as stepping-stones to others far 
more important. 

If he had many servants in the employ of his intelli- 
gence, at least each of them had his own duties, his 

1 Referring to the period from 1804 to 1814, reign of Napoleon I. 

1 


2 


PICCIOLA. 


especial charge, his particular fields to till . 1 With the 
Germans, he devoted himself to metaphysics; with the 
English and Italians, to politics and legislation ; with 
all, to history, which he could question by going back 
to its first sources, thanks to the Hebrews, Greeks, and 
Romans. 

He accordingly devoted himself wholly to these grave 
speculations, by no means neglecting the sister sciences 
which relate to them. But soon, dismayed by the ever- 
widening horizon, stumbling at every step in the laby- 
rinthine maze upon which he had entered, wearied by the 
vain pursuit of a doubtful truth, he ceased to regard his- 
tory as anything but a huge traditional lie, and strove to 
reconstruct it upon new bases. He merely wrote one 
more romance, which scholars ridiculed from envy, and 
the world from ignorance. 

Political and legislative science offered him something 
more positive ; but it seemed to call for so many reforms 
in Europe ! And when he tried to point out some which 
might be made, he found abuses so ineradicable a part of 
the social structure, so many existences were dependent 
upon a false principle, that he lost courage, feeling that 
he had neither the strength nor the lack of feeling needed 
to overturn in other lands what the stress and storm of 
revolution 2 had failed to destroy in France. 

Then, how many worthy people, with the same light 
and with the same good intentions, had theories wholly 
opposed to his ! What if he were to set the whole world 
by the ears for a doubt ! This thought troubled him even 

1 Refers to the seven languages he had mastered as so many servants 

2 Revolution of 1789. 


PICCIOLA. 


3 


more than the aberrations of history, and left him in a 
state of painful perplexity. 

There remained metaphysics. 

The world of ideas — where he thought no one’s repose 
need be disturbed — and he lost his own. 

The deeper he plunged into its depths, analyzing, dis- 
cussing, and arguing, the more obscure and confusing all 
became to him. The unattainable truth, always evading 
his approach, vanished before him and seemed to hover 
mockingly above him like a will-of-the-wisp, drawing him 
on only to lead him astray. 

Hesitating between Bossuet and Spinoza , 1 between 
deism and atheism, urged in different directions by spir- 
itualists, epicureans, animists, autologists, eclectics, and 
materialists, he was seized with an immense doubt which 
he desperately solved by a complete negation. 

Chance became his God, nothingness his hope ! 

He clung to this system with rapture, almost with pride, 
as if he had himself created it, feeling happy, in the midst 
of his incredulity, to be rid of all the doubts which had 
besieged him. 

The death of a relative left him possessor of a large 
fortune. He bade farewell to learning and resolved to 
live for pleasure alone. 

After the coming into office of the consular government, 
French society was put upon a new footing of luxury and 
splendor. Amidst the trumpet blasts of victory heard on 
every hand, all was wild delight in Paris. 

Charney went into society, rich, fashionable society, 

1 Between belief and unbelief. Bossuet, a French bishop, 1627-1704. 
Spinoza, a Dutch metaphysician, 1632-1677. 


4 


PICCIOLA 


amiable, brilliant society, the society of grace and wit 
and intellect ; then in the centre of this whirl of idle and 
yet busy life, of this mad chase after pleasure, he was 
amazed to find that he was not happy. 

He had tried to be intimate with men famed for their 
learning and their good sense ; but how weak, ignorant, 
and full of errors he found them ! He pitied them. 

« 

This is one of the worst inconveniences of an excess of 
human knowledge ; you find no one on a level with you ; 
even those who know as much as you do, do not know 
it in the same way. From the height which you have 
reached, you see other men below you, weak and insignifi- 
cant ; for in the hierarchy of intellect, as in that of power, 
solitude is the result of greatness. 

To live alone is the punishment of those who aspire to 
too great heights ! 

Our philosopher appealed more and more freely to 
material and positive enjoyments. In that society just 
springing to life again, so long deprived of pleasures and 
parties, still bearing the marks of the bloody struggles of 
the revolution, and which, trailing behind its shreds and 
tatters of Roman virtues, at a single bound outdid the 
gorgeous orgies of the regency , 1 he made himself conspic- 
uous by the exaggeration of his expenditures, his lavish 
extravagance, his follies. Fruitless efforts ! 

He had horses, carriages, an open table ; he gave con- 
certs, balls, and hunting parties ; and nowhere could he 
find pleasure ! 

***** 

1 Period during the minority of Louis XV, from 1715-1723, when Philip, 
Duke of Orleans, was Regent — a period of corruption and extravagance. 


PICC10LA. 


5 


Charney could find happiness neither in truth nor in error. 

To virtue he was averse, to vice indifferent. 

He had sounded the vanity of learning, and happy igno- 
rance was forbidden him. The gates of that Eden were 
forever closed behind him. 

The bustle of society wearied him ; solitude and silence 
were painful to him. 

In company, others bored him ; alone, he bored himself. 

Profound melancholy took possession of him. 

Philosophic analysis, in spite of his efforts to avoid it, 
ruled his thoughts and, destroying all illusion, tarnished, 
dwarfed, and destroyed the pleasures and luxury amid 
which he fain would live. The praises of his friends 
ceased to be anything but the current coin in which they 
paid for the share they took in his wealth, and merely 
showed their desire to secure at his expense a seat at the 
table with the fortunate of the earth. 

He was stricken with a dreadful disease, and yet one 
more common than we might think — one which attacks 
the proud to humble them. 

In the fine texture of his clothes he seemed to smell the 
foul odor of the animal which furnished the wool. In the 
silk of his rich hangings he saw the loathsome worm which 
spun it. His elegant furniture, his carpets, his books, 
his silver and ivory toys, all seemed to him mere cast-off 
skins and refuse. Death, Death set off and fashioned by 
the sweat of a dirty artisan. 

His illusions were gone, his imagination paralyzed. 

And yet he must have sensations at any cost ! 

The love which he could not fix on a single object he 
strove to lavish on an entire nation. 


6 


PICCIOLA. 


He became a philanthropist ! 

To help mankind, whom he despised, he again threw 
himself into politics, not speculative politics now, but 
active politics. He was initiated into secret societies ; he 
strove to feel that sort of fanaticism which may befit dis- 
illusioned spirits. In short, he conspired ! And against 
whom ? Against the power of Bonaparte. 

Perhaps the patriotic love, the universal love which 
seemed to inspire him, may really have been nothing more 
than hatred for a single man, for a man whose glory and 
success disturbed him. 

The aristocratic Charney fell back upon the principles 
of equality ; the proud gentleman, stripped of the title 
inherited from his ancestors, could not endure another to 
assume with impunity the title of emperor, which he had 
only won at the point of the sword. 

What was the conspiracy ? It matters not. 

There was no lack of conspiracies at that time. I only 
know that it smouldered from 1803 to 1804; but it was 
never permitted to break forth ; the police, the secret provi- 
dence watching over the destinies of the coming empire, 
exposed it betimes and did not see fit to make any stir 
about it, nor think it worthy of a military execution on 
the plains of Grenoble. 1 

The leaders of the conspiracy, taken by surprise, arrested 
in their own houses, condemned almost unheard, were scat- 
tered among the prisons, citadels, or fortresses of the 
ninety-six departments of France. 

1 Now included in the limits of Paris ; formerly a small village where 
military executions took place. 


CHAPTER II. 


I remember that as I crossed the Greek Alps , 1 on my 
way to Italy, travelling on foot, my knapsack on my back 
and my alpenstock in my hand, I paused musingly to gaze 
on a torrent, not far from the Col de Rodovetto, swollen 
by the melting glaciers. 

The roar of its waters, the foaming cascades along its 
course, its various hues, now yellow, now white, and now 
black, showed that it had made its way through layers 
of marlstone, limestone, and slate ; the huge blocks of 
marble and flint which it had laid bare, but not uprooted, 
formed so many cataracts, added a different note to all the 
other tones, fresh cascades to all the other cascades ; the 
branches of drifting trees, half out of the water, were 
on the one side torn by the wind, which was blowing vio- 
lently, and on the other twisted by the leaping waves. 
Clods of earth, still covered with verdure, islets wrested 
from the banks, floated on the surface of the torrent 
and were dashed to pieces against the trees, as the trees 
in turn were dashed against the boulders. All this uproar 
and confusion, the various sights and sounds, compressed 
within two lofty steep banks, held me for some time a 
prey to meditation. 

This torrent was the Clusare . 2 

I wandered along its banks, and in its company I 
reached one of the four valleys known as Protestant, in 

1 A portion of the Alps extending from Mont Cenis to Mont Blanc. 

2 One of the minor affluents of the Po. 

7 


8 


PICCIOLA. 


memory of the Waldenses , 1 who once took refuge there. 
My torrent had now lost its rapid, lawless course and its 
roaring, brawling voices. It ran smoother, it had left its 
trees and islets by the way ; its colors had melted and 
blended into a single tint, and the mud from its bed no 
longer clouded its surface. Still flowing swiftly, but 
smoothly, it assumed the aspect of a peaceful river to 
caress with its waves the walls of Fenestrella. 

Before me was Fenestrella, a large town famed for its 
peppermint, and still more for the forts which crown the 
two mounts upon which the town lies. These forts, which 
communicate by means of covered ways , 2 were partly dis-* 
mantled during the wars of the republic ; one of them, 
however, repaired and revictualled, was made a state 
prison when Piedmont became a part of France. 

In this very fort, at Fenestrella, Charles Veramont, 
Count de Charney, was confined, accused of an attempt 
to overthrow the regular and lawful government of his 
country, and to substitute a reign of disorder and 
terror. 

Behold him now, parted alike from scholars and pleas- 
ure seekers, regretting neither, forgetting without much 
regret the hope of political regeneration which had for a 
moment seemed to kindle his weary soul ; bidding a forced 
farewell, but one full of resignation, to his fortune, all 
whose splendors could not dazzle him ; to his friends who 
loved him or deceived him ; his abode, instead of his 

1 Vaudois or Waldenses, a religious sect, so called from their founder, 
Pierre de Vaux, born near Lyons in 1170. In 1689 they sought shelter in 
Piedmont. 

2 Passages protected from shot by a breastwork of earth, gabions or 
sandbags. 


PICCIOLA. 


9 


spacious and elegant house, a bare and gloomy cell, his 
gaoler for his only servant. 

What does he care for the gloom and poverty of his home? 
All that is strictly necessary is there, and he is tired of 
superfluities. Even his gaoler seems to him tolerable. 

His thoughts alone oppress him. 

And yet what other diversion is left him ? 

All communication with the outside world is forbidden 
him. He has not, nor can he have, either books, pen, or 
paper. Such are the rules of the prison. 

This would have been no privation to him once, when 
his only idea was to evade the scientific doubts which 
besieged him. Now, a book would have given him a 
friend to consult ; nay, more, a foe to combat. Aloof 
from the world, he was forced to fall back upon him- 
self, to live with his enemy — with his thoughts. 

But how bitter and how oppressive are those thoughts 
which never cease to remind him of his desperate position ! 
How dull and cold for him, for him upon whom Nature 
once lavished her gifts, whom society surrounded from his 
birth with favors and privileges ; for him now a wretched 
captive ; for him who has such need of protection and 
help, and who has no faith either in the power of God or 
the pity of man ! 

He tries again to free himself from that demon of argu- 
mentation which alternately freezes and inflames him. 
Once more he strives to live with the external world, in the 
material world. But how narrow are now the limits of 
that world for him ! 

The cell occupied by Count de Charney was in the rear 
of the fortress, in a small building constructed upon the 


10 


PICCIOLA. 


ruins of an ancient stronghold, formerly a part of the 
defence of the fortress, but now made unnecessary by 
newer fortifications. 

Four walls freshly whitewashed, where he could find no 
trace of those who had occupied this place of desolation 
before him ; a table upon which he could do nothing but 
eat ; 1 a chair, whose painful unity seemed to warn him 
that no human being would ever sit beside him there ; a 
box for his clothes ; a small sideboard of painted pine, half 
worm-eaten, upon which, in strange contrast, lay a rich 
dressing case, inlaid with silver (the only relic of his 
former splendor) ; a bed, narrow but clean ; a couple of 
blue cotton curtains, which hung at the window, as if in 
mockery; for considering the size of the iron bars and the 
high wall opposite, which rose ten feet in the air, there 
was no cause to fear either curious glances or the oppres- 
sive rays of the sun ; such was the furniture of his room. 

Above this room there was another, precisely like his, 
but empty, unoccupied ; for he had no companions in this 
detached part of the fortress. 

The rest of his universe was limited to a short and 
massive stone staircase, winding down to a tiny paved 
courtyard, constructed in one of the old moats of the 
citadel. 

This was the place where, for two hours a day, he was 
allowed to take such exercise and to enjoy such liberty as 
the rules laid down by the commanding officer permitted. 

Thence the prisoner could see the mountain peaks and 
the mists which rose from the plains ; for the outworks of 
the fortress, falling away abruptly to the east of the court - 

1 Having no books or writing materials. 


P ICC 10 LA. 


11 


yard, allowed sun and air to enter. But once inside his 
room, a horizon of masonry alone met his gaze in the 
midst of the sublime and picturesque scenery by which he 
was surrounded. On his right bloomed the enchanted 
slopes of Saluces ; 1 on his left were the valleys of Aosta 
and the banks of the Chiara ; before him lay the wondrous 
plains of Turin ; behind him the Alps rose peak above 
peak, decked with rocks, forests, and chasms, from Mont 
Genevre to Mont Cenis, and he saw nothing ; nothing but 
a hazy sky hanging above his head in a framework of 
stones ; nothing but that lofty wall opposite, whose weari- 
some monotony was only broken towards the end of it by 
one small square window, through the bars of which from 
time to time he caught a glimpse of a sad and sullen face. 

Such was the limited world where he was henceforth to 
seek his amusements and find his joys. 

He struggled hard to do so. 

He scribbled, he scrawled in charcoal on the walls of 
his room, figures and dates which reminded him of happy 
incidents of his youth ; but how few they were ! These 
memories did but leave him more down-hearted than ever. 

Then his fatal demon, his thoughts, returned with their 
distressing convictions and he shaped them into maxims 
which he did not hesitate to scratch upon his walls, side 
by side with the names of his mother and sister. 

Longing at last to overcome his morbid abstraction and 
his overwhelming idleness, he strove to adapt himself to 
frivolous and childish things ; he yielded to the sluggish- 
ness produced by prolonged imprisonment ; he revelled in 
it, he wallowed in it with rapture. 

1 A town of Northern Italy. 


12 


PICCIOLA. 


The scholar unravelled linen and silk ! 

The philosopher made reed pipes ; he built men-of-war 
of nutshells ! 

The man of genius made whistles, carved boxes and 
openwork baskets of fruit stones ! The revolutionist 
made chains and musical instruments of the wire 
springs 1 in his braces ! 

Then he fell to admiring himself in his works ; then, 
soon after, he was seized with disgust, and he trampled 
them all underfoot. 

To vary his occupations, he carved a thousand odd 
figures on his table. 

Never did schoolboy hack his desk, or load it with 
arabesques, in high and low relief, with more skill and 
patience. The church at Caudebec , 2 the pulpit and palm 
trees of St. Gudule, the cathedral at Brussels, are not 
adorned with a greater profusion of figures on wood. 
There were houses upon houses, fishes upon trees, men 
taller than the steeples, boats upon roofs, carriages in the 
middle of a lake, dwarfed pyramids, and giant flies ; all 
this, horizontal, vertical, oblique, upside down, topsy-turvy, 
pell-mell, a hieroglyphic chaos, where he sometimes strug- 
gled to find a symbolic meaning, a sequence, a plot ; for 
one who had such firm faith in the power of chance might 
well hope to find a perfect poem in the scratches upon his 
table, like a drawing by Raphael 3 on the mottled rims of 
a bit of boxwood. 

1 Elastic had not then been invented. 

2 A small town in the department of lower Seine, with a church in the 
florid style of the fifteenth century. 

3 Raphael, great Italian painter, born at Urbino 1483, died 1520. 


PICCIOLA. 


13 


He thus tried his best to multiply the difficulties to be 
overcome, the problems to be solved, the riddles to be 
guessed, and yet tedium, dread tedium, surprised him in 
the midst of all these grave cares ! 

The man whose face he had seen at the end of the high 
wall might perhaps have afforded him more genuine diver- 
sion ; but this fellow-prisoner appeared to shun his gaze, 
withdrawing from his grating as soon as the Count seemed 
to look at him with any attention. Charney at once took 
an aversion to him. 

He had so poor an opinion of mankind that this move- 
ment to retreat was all that was needed to make him think 
that the unknown was a spy charged to watch him even 
in the leisure of his prison, or an ancient enemy enjoying 
his misery and disgrace. 

When he questioned the gaoler on this point, the latter 
tried to undeceive him. 

"That is an Italian,” he said; "a good fellow, a good 
Christian, for I often find him saying his prayers.” 

Charney shrugged his shoulders. 

"And why is he here ? ” he asked. 

" He tried to kill the emperor .’ 5 

" So he is a patriot ? ” 

" A patriot ? oh ! no ; but the poor man had a son and 
a daughter ; he has only a daughter now ; and his son 
died in Germany. ... A cannon ball carried off his 
head. Povero jigliuolo / ” 1 

" Then it was only an outburst of egotism ! ” muttered 
Charney. 

" Zounds ! you are not a father, Signor Conte" said the 

1 Poor lad. 


14 


PIC CIO LA . 


gaoler. " If I had to choose between my little Antonio, 
who is still at his mother’s breast, and the empire, which 
is just about the same age as he is. . . . Cristo santo ! 
But silence, I don’t want to live at Fenestrella except with 
the keys at my belt or under my pillow.” 

"And what are the present occupations of this bold 
conspirator ? ” 

" He catches flies,” said the gaoler with a semi-jocose 
expression. 

Charney no longer hated his neighbor ; he despised 
him. 

" Is he crazy ? ” he exclaimed. 

" Percht pazzo} Count ? You came here more recently 
than he did, and you are already a master-hand at wood 
carving. Pazienza ! ” 2 

In spite of the irony contained in these last words, 
Charney resumed his manual labors and the explanation 
of his hieroglyphics, remedies which were still of no avail 
against the evils which tormented him. 

Amid these trifling occupations, amid these trials, the 
winter wore away. 

Happily for him a new subject of diversion soon came 
to his aid. 

1 Why crazy. 

2 Wait awhile. 


CHAPTER III. 


One day, at the set hour, Charney was walking in his 
courtyard, his head bent, his arms crossed behind his 
back, pacing slowly, softly up and down, as if to enlarge 
the narrow limits which he was permitted to traverse. 

Springtime was at hand ; a gentler air filled his lungs, 
and he longed to be at liberty, to be free to come and go. 

He was counting the paving stones of the little yard 
one by one, no doubt to make sure of the correctness of 
his former calculations, for it was not by any means the 
first time that he had counted them, when he saw, there, 
directly in front of him, before his eyes, a tiny hillock of 
earth slightly upheaved between two paving stones and 
gaping wide at the top. 

He paused and his heart beat ; he knew not why. But 
to a prisoner everything is cause for hope or fear ! In 
the most indifferent objects, the most insignificant event, 
he seeks some miraculous reason which may lead to his 
rescue. 

Perhaps this slight upheaval of the surface may be caused 
by some vast works in the bowels of the earth ! There may 
be passageways underground which will open and make a 
road for him to pass through fields and mountains ! Per- 
haps his friends or his former accomplices are sapping and 
mining 1 to get at him and restore him to life and liberty ! 

1 " Sap,” open trenches on the surface of the ground. " Mine,” under- 
ground galleries. Both are used when approaching a fortified place, regu- 
larly besieged. 


5 


16 


PICCIOLA. 


He listens eagerly, and fancies he hears a dull, long- 
drawn sound from the centre of the fortress ; he lifts his 
head, and the air in commotion bears to him the rapid 
strokes of an alarm bell. The roll of drums runs along 
the ramparts, as a signal for war. He shudders and 
presses a quivering hand to his forehead, which is moist 
with apprehension. 

Is he really to be set free? Has France changed 
masters ? 

The dream lasted but a second. Reflection dispelled 
the illusion. He had no accomplices now, and never had 
a friend ! He listens again ; the same sounds strike his 
ear, but they awaken other thoughts. The sound of the 
alarm bell, the roll of the drum are only the far-off strokes 
of a church clock which he hears every day at the same 
hour, and the customary call to arms, which need startle 
none but a few laggard soldiers within the fortress. 

Charney smiled bitterly, and pitied himself when he 
thought that an insignificant creature, a mole, astray from 
his road no doubt, a field mouse scratching the earth 
beneath his feet, had led him to put faith for one moment 
in human affection and the overthrow of the great 
empire ! 

However, he resolved to settle the question, and kneel- 
ing beside the little mound, he delicately removed with 
his finger tip first one side of the divided summit, then 
the other ; and he saw with amazement that the swift 
and fierce emotion which had overcome him for an instant 
was not even caused by a living creature, moving, scratch- 
ing, armed with teeth and claws, but by a feeble growth, 
barely sprouted, colorless and drooping. 


PIC C /OLA. 


17 


Rising deeply mortified, he was about to tread it under- 
foot when a cool breeze, which had passed over bushes of 
honeysuckle and hawthorn, fanned him, as if imploring 
mercy for the poor plant, which, too, might perhaps some 
day have sweet perfumes to bestow. 

A fresh thought struck him and arrested his hasty feel- 
ing of disappointment. 

How had that tender, delicate plantlet, so fragile that 
a touch would destroy it, managed to lift up, divide, and 
cast aside that soil baked and hardened by the sun, trod- 
den down by himself, and almost cemented to the two 
fragments of stone between which it was confined ? 

He again stooped and studied it more carefully. 

He saw at its tip a sort of double fleshy valve, which, 
folding over the first leaves, protected them from the 
attack of any hostile body and enabled them to pierce 
the crust of earth in search of sunshine and air. 

" Ah ! ” he exclaimed, "here we have the whole secret ! 
Nature has provided it with this power, just as little 
chickens, before they are hatched, are already armed with 
a beak strong enough to break the thick shell that con- 
tains them. Poor prisoner, in your captivity you at least 
possessed tools which might help to set you free ! ” 

He gazed at it for some moments more, and no longer 
dreamed of destroying it. 

Next day, during his usual walk, striding to and fro, 
lost in thought, he almost stepped on it, and stopped 
short. Surprised at the interest which he felt in his new 
acquaintance, he noted its progress. 

The plant had grown, and the rays of the sun had done 
away with much of that sickly pallor which it had on first 


18 


PICCIOLA. 


emerging from the ground. He considered that sickly 
stunted stalk’s power of absorbing the rays of light, of 
feeding on them, deriving nourishment from them, and 
borrowing from the prison the colors in which it clothes 
itself, colors pre-assigned to each of its parts. 

"Yes, its leaves, no doubt,” he thought, "will be a dif- 
ferent color from the stem ; and then the flowers ! What 
color will they be, yellow, blue, or red ? Why, being fed 
with the same juices as the leaves and stem, should they 
not wear the same livery ? How can they find their blue 
and scarlet where the others could find only dark or light 
green ? And yet such will be the case ; for in spite of 
the confusion and disorder of things in general, mat- 
ter follows a regular course, blind though it be. Blind, 
indeed ! ” he repeated ; " I could ask no better proof than 
those two fleshy lobes which helped the plant to issue 
from the earth, but which now, useless to preserve it, 
still feed upon its substance and hang down loosely, 
wearying it with their weight. What are they good 
for?” 

As he spoke, and as night was close at hand, a spring 
night, and likely to be chilly, the two lobes slowly lifted 
before his eyes, and as if to defend themselves against 
his reproaches they drew together and enclosed within 
their bosom, to protect it against cold and the attacks 
of insects, the tender, delicate foliage which the sun was 
now deserting, and which thus, sheltered and warm, slept 
beneath the wings which the plant had gently folded 
over it. 

The learned man appreciated this silent but decisive 
reply more fully when he saw that the outer surface of 


PIC CIO LA. 


]9 


the vegetable bivalve had been gnawed and nibbled, the 
night before, by small slugs whose slimy traces could still 
be seen. 

This strange conversation between thought on the 
one hand and action on the other, between the man and 
the plant, was not to end here. Charney had not given 
so much time to metaphysical discussion to yield so 
readily. 

"All very well,” he replied; "here, as elsewhere, a 
lucky combination of circumstances has favored this fee- 
ble creature. Born with a crowbar to lift the earth, and 
a shield to protect its head, it had two requisites for 
existence ; without them, this plant must have died in its 
germ, like so many myriads of its kind, no doubt made by 
Nature imperfect, incomplete, unfit to grow and multiply, 
having but an hour to live. 

" How can we tell how many faulty and impotent com- 
binations she has tried before she succeeded in bringing 
forth a single specimen fitted to endure ? A blind man may 
hit the mark ; but how many arrows must be lost before 
that result is reached! For thousands of ages a double 
movement of attraction and repulsion has been going on 
in matter ; is it not therefore strange that chance should 
hit the mark so often ? I admit that this envelope may 
protect the first leaves ; but will it grow, will it increase 
to shelter and protect the other leaves as well, against 
the cold and the attacks of their enemies ? No ! Next 
spring, when other leaves put forth, as tender, as frail as 
these, will it be there to protect them ? No ! thus there 
is no foresight here ; this is not the work of intelligent 
thought, but rather of some happy chance ! ” 


20 


PICCIOLA. 


Sir Count, Nature has more than one answer in reserve 
to refute your arguments. Wait and watch her in this 
frail and solitary product of her hands, cast into the court- 
yard of your prison, in the midst of your sorrows, perhaps 
less by accident than by the kindly prevision of Provi- 
dence. Those excrescences, which you yourself have 
already discovered to be a crowbar and a shield, have ren- 
dered other services as well to the feeble plant. Wrap- 
ping it warmly in the frozen earth through the winter, 
when the proper time came they nourished and fed it, 
when, a mere germ, it had as yet no roots to send forth 
in search of the earth’s moisture, no leaves to breathe in 
air and sunshine. 

You are right, Count; those protecting wings which 
now brood so lovingly over the young plant will not grow 
with its growth ; they will drop off, but not before their 
work is done and their nursling, having gained strength 
to resist, can do without them. Do not fear for its future ; 
Nature watches over this weed as she does over its sister 
plants ; and so long as the north winds bring down chill 
mists and snowflakes from the Alps, the young leaves 
will find safe shelter, a refuge prepared for them, shielded 
from contact with the air, made impervious with gums 
and resins, expanding with their needs, and only opening 
at propitious times and seasons. The leaves will not peep 
forth until they are clad in warm furs, in fleecy down 
which will protect them from the late frosts and atmos- 
pheric changes. 

Did any mother ever watch more lovingly over her 
children ? These things you would have known long 
since, Sir Count, if, stooping from the abstract regions 


PIC C/OLA. 


21 


of human knowledge, you had ever deigned to lower your 
gaze to the simple, humble works of God. The farther 
you turned toward the north, the more apparent these 
everyday miracles would be to you. As danger increases, 
Providence redoubles his care ! 

The philosopher had attentively followed all the changes 
and growth of the plant. Once more he had striven against 
it in argument, and again it had an apt answer for every- 
thing ! 

" What is the use of those bristles up and down your 
stem ? ” he asked. 

And next day he found them laden with hoarfrost, 
which, thanks to them, was kept at a distance and could 
not chill the tender rind. 

" What will you do in fine weather with your warm 
mantle of down ? ” 

Fine weather had come, and she laid aside her winter 
cloak before his very eyes, and put on her green spring 
dress, and her new twigs sprang to life without those 
silky wrappers, which were now unnecessary. 

" But if a storm should burst, the wind will break you, 
and the hail will tear your tender leaves into pieces ! ” 

The wind blew, and the young plant, still far too frail 
to contend against it, bowed to the earth, protecting her- 
self by yielding. The hail came, and by a fresh manoeuvre, 
the leaves, closing in against the stalk for shelter, pressed 
together for mutual protection, opposing only their reverse 
to the blows of the enemy, and opposing their firm ribs 
to the weight of the storm king’s missiles ; union was 
strength ; now, as heretofore, the plant issued from the 
conflict, not without trifling injuries, but still hale and 


22 


PICCIOLA. 


hearty, and ready to expand in the sun, which would heal 
her wounds. 

"Can chance be intelligent?” cried Charney; "are we 
to regard matter as spiritual, or mind as material ? ” And 
he continued to question the silent speaker ; he loved to 
see her grow and to follow her in her gradual changes. 

One day, when he had studied her for a long time, he 
caught himself lost in dreams beside her, and his dreams 
were of unwonted sweetness, and he was glad to go on 
with them as he paced up and down the courtyard. Then, 
lifting his head, he saw at the barred window in the wall 
the "flycatcher,” who seemed to be watching him. At 
first he blushed, as if that man could read his thoughts, 
and then he smiled at him, for he no longer despised him. 
Had he any right to do so ? Was not he, too, wholly 
absorbed in the study of one of the smallest creations of 
nature ? 

"Who knows,” he mused, "whether that Italian may 
not have discovered in a fly as many things worthy of 
consideration as I have found in my plant ? ” 

On his return to his room the first thing which caught 
his eye was that fatalistic axiom inscribed by him on the 
wall two months before : 

" Chance is blind \ and it alone is the father of the 
creation .” 

He took a piece of charcoal and wrote below : 

" Perhaps .” 


CHAPTER IV. 


Charney no longer wrote upon his wall ; he carved on 
his table nothing but young shoots protected by their 
seed lobes, leaves with their varied outlines and their 
salient ribs. He spent the greater part of his hours of 
exercise bending over his plant, examining it, studying its 
growth ; and on his return to his cell, he often stood and 
gazed at it through the bars. 

This was now his favorite occupation — the prisoner’s 
toy, his hobby. Would he weary of this as readily as of 
all the rest ? 

One morning from his window he saw the gaoler, cross- 
ing the yard with a hasty step, pass so near the plant 
that it seemed as if he must have crushed it with his foot. 
The prisoner shuddered at the thought. 

When Ludovic brought him his scanty breakfast, he 
tried to implore him to spare the only ornament of his 
daily walk ; but he knew not how to frame his modest 
request. 

Perhaps the sanitary rules of the prison demanded the 
removal of that vegetable parasite ; so that he might be 
asking a favor, and he had but little with which to pay for 
that which he valued so highly. Ludovic had already 
fleeced him desperately, overcharging him for all the trifles 
which the gaoler is allowed to furnish the prisoners ! 
Besides, until now Charney had but seldom spoken to the 
fellow, whose abrupt manners and sordid nature repelled 
him. No doubt the gaoler would be ill-disposed to gratify 

23 


24 


PICCIOLA. 


him. Then his pride suffered at the idea of showing his 
tastes to be on a level, or very nearly so, with those of the 
" flycatcher,” his contempt for whom he had declared so 
openly. And finally he might meet with a refusal ; for 
the inferior, whose office gives him the temporary right to 
permit or refuse, almost always makes a cruel use of his 
power ; he does not know that indulgence is a proof of 
strength. 

A refusal would wound the noble prisoner alike in his 
hopes and in his pride. 

Accordingly, it was not without countless oratoric pre- 
cautions, or until he had fortified himself with his philo- 
sophic knowledge of human weaknesses, that Charney 
began his address, carefully arranged in his head, so that 
he might achieve his end without compromising his self- 
respect or, rather, his vanity. 

He began by addressing the gaoler in Italian ; this was 
meant to arouse his memories of childhood and nationality. 
He spoke of his son, his little Antonio ; he knew how to 
appeal to his weak point and compel him to listen ; then, 
taking a silver-gilt cup from his elegant dressing case, he 
begged him to give it to the child from him. 

Ludovic smiled and refused. 

Charney, although somewhat discouraged, did not admit 
that he was defeated. He insisted, and with a skilful 
transition : " I know,” he said, "that playthings, a rattle, 
a few flowers, would perhaps please him better ; but you 
can sell this cup, my good fellow, and use the money to 
buy what you like for him.” 

He then came out with a : "But, speaking of flowers ! ” 
which brought him to his subject. 


PICCIOLA. 


25 


Thus patriotism, parental love, childish memories, per- 
sonal interest, those great incentives of humanity, were 
all used by him to attain his ends. What more could 
he have done had his own fate been at stake ? Judge 
whether he loved his plant ! 

"Count,” said Ludovic when he paused, "keep your 
nacchera dorata , ml the other jewels in your pretty box would 
mourn its absence. You forget that my caro bambino 2 
is only three months old and can as yet drink without a 
goblet. As for your gillyflower — ” 

" What, a gillyflower ! Is it a gillyflower ? ” cried Char- 
ney, foolishly disappointed to find that he had lavished 
such care on so ordinary a flower. 

" Odd zounds ! I know nothing about it, Signor Conte. 
To my eyes all plants are more or less gillyflowers; I know 
nothing about such things. But if it comes to that, you 
are rather late in recommending it to my mercy. I should 
have trampled it down long ago, with no idea of hurting 
either you or the fair one in question, 3 if I had not seen 
the tender interest you take in it.” 

"Oh! my interest,” said Charney, somewhat embar- 
rassed, "is easily explained.” 

"Tut, tut, tut, I know what I am talking about,” replied 
Ludovic, trying to wink knowingly; "a man must have 
some occupation ; he must have something to love ; and 
a poor prisoner has not much choice. I can tell you, 
Count, we have lodgers here who were very fine gentlemen 
in their day, tiptop scholars (for it is not the small fry 
that come here) ; well ! they put up with cheap amuse- 
ments now, I assure you. One of them catfches flies ; 

1 Gilded toy. 2 Dear little boy. 3 The plant. 


26 


PICCIOLA. 


another,” he added with another wink which he tried to 
make even more significant than the first, " another hacks 
out pictures on his pine table without ever considering 
that I am responsible for the furniture here.” 

The Count tried to get in a word, but was not 
allowed. 

" Some raise canaries and goldfinches, some train little 
white mice. As for me, I respect their tastes, and to such 
an extent, bless you ! that I had a magnificent cat, a huge 
fellow with long white hair, a real Angora ; he ran about 
and played and was the prettiest thing in the world, and 
when he took his nap you would have taken him for a 
lady’s muff ; my wife was just crazy over him, and so was 
I ; and yet I gave him away, for that small game might 
tempt him; and all the cats in the world are not worth one 
mouse to a prisoner ! ” 

" That was very good of you, Mr. Ludovic,” replied 
Charney, feeling ill at ease that any one should fancy he 
cared for such childish things ; " but this plant is more 
than a mere amusement to me.” 

" Never mind ! If it do but remind you of the green 
tree under which your mother rocked you when you were 
little, by Jove ! it may shade half the courtyard. Besides, 
there is not a word about such things in the rules, and I 
shall keep my eyes shut. If it should grow into a tree 
and you could use it to scale the wall, that would be a 
very different matter ! But there ’s plenty of time to 
consider that, is n’t there ?” he added with a hearty laugh; 
" not that I don’t wish with my whole heart that I could 
give you the key to the fields and the free use of your legs ; 
but that will come in due time, according to rule and law, 


PICCIOLA. 


27 


with official permission. Oh ! if you were to try to escape 
from the fortress — ” 

" What should you do ? ” 

" What should I do ? Thunder ! I should block your 
way even if you were to kill me ; or I would order the 
sentinel to shoot you, with no more mercy than if you were 
a rabbit ; those are my orders. But as for touching a single 
leaf of your gillyflower ! Oh ! no, no ! Put my foot on 
it ! Never ! I have always considered that man an utter 
wretch, unworthy to be a gaoler, who maliciously crushed 
the poor prisoner’s spider . 1 That was a wicked deed ; it 
was a crime ! ” 

Charney was both touched and surprised to find so 
much feeling in his gaoler; but for the very reason that 
he began to esteem him a little more, his vanity persisted 
in ascribing to scientific motives the interest which he 
took in the plant. 

" My dear Mr. Ludovic,” said he, " I thank you for your 
kind words. Yes, I admit that this plant is the source of 
many observations — philosophic observations which are 
full of interest. I love to study its physiological phenom- 
ena.” And as the gaoler showed by a nod that he heard 
but did not understand, he added : " Moreover, the species 
to which it belongs, possesses medicinal properties very 
beneficial in certain serious ailments to which I am 
subject ! ” 

He lied ; but it would have cost him too much to admit 
that he had sunk to the childish whims of ordinary prison- 
ers to this man who had just risen a degree in his opinion — 

1 An allusion to Pelissier and his tame spider, on which the governor of 
the Bastille cruelly trod. 


28 


PICCIOLA. 


the only person who ever came near him, and who now, 
to him, summed up all mankind. 

" Well, if your plant has done you so much good, 
Count,” replied Ludovic, turning to leave the room, 
"you ought to show yourself more grateful to it and 
water it sometimes ; for if I had not taken pains to wet 
it now and then when I brought you your supply of drink- 
ing water, th e povera Picciola (the poor little thing) would 
have died of thirst. Addio , Signor Conte!” 

"One moment, my good Ludovic!” cried Charney, 
more and more surprised to find such delicate instincts 
contained in so rude a frame, and almost repenting that 
he had not appreciated them before. " What ! you take 
heed for my pleasure and you said nothing to me ! Ah ! 
I implore you, accept this little present as a token of my 
gratitude. If later on I can pay my debt to you more 
fully, rely on me.” 

And he again offered him the silver-gilt cup. Ludovic 
took it, and, examining it with a sort of curiosity : 

" Pay me for what, Signor Conte ? Plants ask for noth- 
ing but water, and a man may treat them to drink without 
spending all he has at the tavern. If it diverts you un poco 1 
from your troubles, if it bears good fruit for you, that is 
enough.” 

And he replaced the cup in the dressing case. 

The Count stepped towards Ludovic and offered him 
his hand. 

"Oh ! no, no,” said the gaoler, drawing back with a look 
of respect and constraint. " You should only give your 
hand to your equal or your friend.” 


1 A little. 


PICCIOLA. 


29 


"Well ! Ludovic, be my friend ! ” 

"No, no,” repeated the gabler, "that may not be, eccel- 
lenza } We should always think beforehand, so that we 
may do our duty conscientiously, now and in the future. 
If you were my friend, and you tried to give us the slip, 
should I have the courage to shout to the sentinel, * Fire ’•? 
No, I am your keeper, your gaoler, and divotissimo servo ” 2 

1 Your worship. 

2 Most obedient servant. 


CHAPTER V. 


When Ludovic had gone, Charney reflected how supe- 
rior he, with his personal advantages, had always held 
himself to this rough fellow in all their intercourse. 
To what paltry subterfuges he had had recourse to sur- 
prise the heart of that simple, kindly nature ! He had 
not blushed to stoop to a lie ! 

How grateful he was for the secret attentions lavished 
on his plant ! What ! that gaoler, whom he fancied 
capable of refusing merely to abstain from an evil act, 
had even anticipated his wishes ! He had watched him, 
not to mock at his weakness, but to befriend his pleas- 
ures, and his generosity forced the noble Count to acknowl- 
edge himself his debtor. 

The hour for exercise had come, and Charney did not 
forget to share his portion of water with his plant. Not 
content with this, he took care to remove the dust which 
clogged its leaves and the vermin which attacked them. 

And while busy with this task he thinks of Ludovic ; he 
longs to know him better, to find an explanation of the 
strange contrasts afforded by the character of one who 
was both rough and gentle, merciless and full of pity, 
miserly and generous. 

He who was once so interested in the fall of ancient 
empires, the migrations of races, the exploits, the con- 
quests of Cyrus, Alexander, and Genghis Khan, now asks 
nothing of the great world history save the history of his 
gaoler. 

30 


P/CC/OLA. 


31 


By dint of questions, suppositions, and logical deduc- 
tions he learned thus much from Ludovic himself. 

Ludovic Ritti, a Piedmontese, was born at Nice , 1 the 
compatriot and contemporary of Massena . 2 Children of 
the same part of the town, schoolmates, and playmates 
out of school hours, they lived side by side. 

But from their earliest youth, in accord with their dif- 
ferent characters, if they played horse, Ludovic was the 
horse and Massena the driver; if they stole fruit from 
a neighbor’s garden, Ludovic acted as ladder, Massena 
climbed the wall and contrived to keep the lion’s share ; 
if they went poaching in the woods, Ludovic beat the 
bushes, and Massena was the hunter. 

Thus the friends grew up together, roamed the world 
together, together entered the republican army, and 
together took out their naturalization papers, not in the 
usual way, by declaring themselves Frenchmen, but by 
helping France to make their own country hers. 

At this time, to be sure, Massena was a general, while 
Ludovic still wore his first worsted epaulettes . 3 One was 
born to rule, the other to obey. 

Yes, to obey passively, blindly, completely. Such was 
Ludovic’s second nature, his instinctive need. He was a 
Russian, a mere instrument of war, moving at the pleasure 
of the hand which guided him. His chief’s command to 
him was like the order of God himself ; his movements 
were so completely in accord with the word of command, 
that even in the thickest of the fight, even with an enemy’s 

1 Chief town in the department of the Maritime Alps. 

2 A marshal under Napoleon I. 

8 As private or noncommissioned officer. 


32 


P/CCIOLA. 


pistol at his head, he would have paused, sword in air, 
without striking, had a sign proclaimed the close of hos- 
tilities. 

Although very brave, Ludovic would never be carried 
away by his ardor, and would not have moved one step 
froni the ranks, either backward or forward. If he never 
did any great deed during his campaigns, it was merely 
because it was never ordered. 

If his sergeant had offered him a glass of ink instead of 
his ration of brandy, and said, " Drink it ! ” he would have 
swallowed it without wincing. 

In the terrible year 1795, amidst the snow of the Alps, 
when he and his mates marched barefoot and with empty 
stomachs, if any of them grumbled, Ludovic would say 
calmly, " But those are our orders.” 

Severely wounded at Marengo, and slightly crippled by 
a ball which lodged in the fleshy part of his thigh, he was 
compelled to retire from service. 

Great was his embarrassment. All he had gained by 
his campaigns and his stay in Germany, Italy, and various 
parts of France was a wonderful faculty for swearing in 
four or five different tongues. 

Returning to Nice, to his native city, condemned to a 
sedentary life, his own master, with no guiding hand over 
him, he was at a loss to direct his movements or to arrange 
his life. 

His only diversion, his only pleasure, his only joy was 
to watch the garrison drill, and to keep step with them 
as the guard came on duty or went off. 

He went home to bed every night when he heard the 
tattoo ; but the drum no longer sounded for his meals and 


PICCIOLA. 


33 


for his rising ; in the everyday acts of life there was no 
one to shout, " Right about face ! Forward march ! ” And 
what could he make of an existence which he must fashion 
for himself ? Obedience is so sweet to indolent spirits ! 
And then habit makes it a necessity. 

To put an end to this perplexing situation, Ludovic 
took a desperate resolve. 

He married. 

In his home he showed the same passive obedience 
which had distinguished him in the army. As if all good 
things were to fall to his lot at once, thanks to his old 
friend Massena, the situation of gaoler at Fenestrella, 
then vacant, was given him. He had thus two com- 
manders instead of one — his wife and his superior 
officer. 

His wife, younger than he, was considered quite a pretty 
girl when he married her, in spite of a large goitre ; 1 but 
being ill-tempered and extremely avaricious, she compelled 
Ludovic, who was naturally generous, to fleece the prison- 
ers for all the trifles which he was allowed to furnish them. 

However, in spite of his wife’s commands, he would 
never accept the slightest present from them, aside from 
his functions as purveyor ; for this matter being known 
only within the walls of the prison, and out of his wife’s 
sight, concerned no one but himself ; and then, besides, 
those were his orders. 

Thus there were in Ludovic three distinct characteris- 
tics, according as he was ruled in turn by his command- 
ing officer, his wife, and his own instincts. Merciless 

1 A swelling of the glands of the throat ; a common disease in Alpine 
regions. 


34 


PICCIOLA. 


where the prison discipline was concerned, here his supe- 
rior officer came into play ; grasping with the prisoners 
here his wife’s hand showed ; but a good fellow, kindly, 
generous, and compassionate, where the commander or 
the mistress of his house did not whisper in his ear and 
inspire him with harshness or avarice, such was his own 
disposition. 

If you care for a more exact likeness of Ludovic Ritti, 
he was forty, dark complexion, thick beard, broad shoul- 
ders, medium height, and strongly built. Picture him 
moving across the prison yards, limping slightly, smoking 
a short black pipe, uttering frequent oaths in French, 
Provencal, Italian, or German, affecting a slight wink when 
he wants to assume a knowing air, easily pleased by the 
mention of his son Antonio or the idea of a good deed, 
and you will know of him all that Charney himself knew, 
perhaps more than it was needful to know. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A few days later, at the appointed hour, Charney was 
at his post beside his plant, when he saw a great black 
cloud darken the sky and hang poised like a gloomy roof 
over the tall turrets of the fortress. Some large drops of 
rain began to fall ; retracing his steps, he was about to 
reenter in search of shelter when hailstones, mingled 
with the rain, suddenly rattled down on the pavement. 

The povera} twisted by the storm, its branches blown 
furiously about, seemed about to be uprooted ; its drenched 
leaves, whirled hither and thither, shuddering in the blast, 
seemed to utter plaintive groans and shrieks of distress. 

Charney paused. He remembered Ludovic’s reproaches 
and glanced eagerly about him in search of something with 
which to shield his plant; he saw nothing; but the hail- 
stones fell thicker and more heavily than ever and threat- 
ened to break it. He trembled for it, for the plant which 
he had once seen resist with such courage the force of 
wind and storm ; but now he loved his plant too well to 
let it run the risk of any danger for the sake of winning 
his point. 

Coming to a resolve worthy of a lover, worthy of a 
father, he drew near it ; he placed himself before his ward, 
like a wall between it and the wind ; he stooped over his 
nursling, acting as a shield against the blows of the hail ; 
and thus, motionless, gasping for breath, beaten by the 
storm from which he sheltered it, protecting it with his 

1 Poor little thing. 

35 


36 


PICCIOLA. 


hands, his body, his head, and his affection, he waited for 
the storm to pass over. 

It passed. But might not a similar danger threaten it 
again, when he, its protector, was under lock and key ? 
Nay, more; Ludovic’s wife, escorted by a big watchdog, 
sometimes visited the yard. Might not this dog in frisk- 
ing about destroy the philosopher’s joy with a snap or a 
stroke of his paw ? Made more prudent by experience, 
Charney devoted the rest of the day to revolving some 
plan, and next day he prepared to carry it out. 

His scanty portion of firewood was hardly enough in 
that changeable climate where even in midsummer the 
nights and mornings are often cold. What matter ? What 
were a few days of privation ? Had he not the warmth of 
his bed ? He would lie down earlier, he would get up 
later. Stingy with his fuel, he hoards it up ; and when 
Ludovic questions him he says : 

" It is to build a palace for my lady love.” 

The gaoler winked, as if he understood ; but he had no 
idea what was meant. 

Meantime Charney split, cut, and sharpened his fagots, 
selecting the most pliant branches, carefully saving the 
flexible willow withes which serve to bind up his daily 
stock of fuel. Then in his trunk he discovers a piece of 
coarse cloth of loose, open texture, with which it is lined ; 
he tears it out, ravels the strongest, coarsest threads. 
His materials thus prepared, he sets bravely to work, as 
rapidly as the prison discipline and his gaoler’s rigid con- 
science will permit. 

Driving between the paving stones around his plant 
strong sticks of various sizes, he strengthens them still 


PICCIOLA. 


37 


more by means of cement, composed of earth laboriously 
collected here and there between the paving stones, of 
saltpetre and plaster secretly snatched from the damp 
walls of the old moats of the fortress. The principal 
parts of the framework thus arranged, he interlaces them 
with slender twigs, forming a sort of screen, fit in case of 
need to protect the povem from contact with a foreign 
body or from the approach of the dog. He was greatly 
encouraged in his work by the fact that Ludovic, who, 
when he first began his task, seemed uncertain whether 
to let him go on, shook his head and uttered a suppressed 
growl, of evil omen, has now accepted it ; and even some- 
times, quietly smoking his pipe at the farther end of the 
yard, leaning against the entrance, one leg crossed over 
the other, watches the as yet inexperienced workman with 
a smile ; then interrupts the pleasure of his pipe to give 
a bit of good advice, by which Charney is not always able 
to profit. 

However, the work progresses. Before he finishes it 
Charney despoils his thin prison pallet in favor of his 
plant. Another sacrifice which he makes for it. He bor- 
rows from his mattress material for some scanty mats 
and arranges them, as best he may, about his scaffolding, 
according as stormy winds blow from the Alps, or the 
sun at high noon may plunge its rays too directly on the 
delicate growth. 

One night the wind blew violently. Charney, who was 
locked in his cell, saw from his window that the courtyard 
was strewed with bits of straw and small twigs. His 
matting and the texture of his screen were not woven 
with sufficient strength. He promised himself to repair 


38 


PICCIOLA. 


the damage next day ; but next day, when he sallied 
forth, the work was already done. Some hand more 
skilful than his own had solidly repaired the interlaced 
branches and the mats, and he knew in his heart whom 
he had to thank for it. 

Thus, thanks to him, thanks to them, the plant was 
surrounded by ramparts and shields; and he, Charney 
himself, growing ever prouder and prouder of it, raptur- 
ously watched it as it grew and strengthened and con- 
stantly produced fresh marvels for him to admire. 

Time seemed to harden it ; the tiny blade became a 
stalk ; the woody substance about its stalk, at first so 
frail, daily gave greater pledges of its endurance, and 
its happy owner was seized with a curious and impatient 
desire to see it blossom. 

He longed for something at last — the man of worn-out 
feeling and dispassionate mind ; the man so proud of 
his intellect had stooped from the height of his proud 
learning to concentrate his vast thoughts upon the con- 
templation of a blade of grass ! 

Be not too quick to accuse him of childish weakness 
and folly. The famous Quaker John Bertram, after spend- 
ing long hours in examining the structure of a violet, de- 
termined to devote his entire mental faculties to the study 
of the vegetable wonders of nature, and soon assumed a 
high place among the masters of science. If a philoso- 
pher in Malabar went mad in trying to explain the phe- 
nomena of the sensitive plant, Count Charney, on the 
contrary, may find true wisdom in his plant. Has he not 
already discovered the secret remedy to charm away his 
cares and to open wide his prison doors ? 


PIC CIO LA. 


39 


"Oh! the flower! the flower!” he exclaimed; "that 
flower, whose beauty shall be for my eye alone, whose 
perfumes will be mine alone, — what shape will it assume ? 
What will be the color of its petals ? No doubt it will 
afford me new problems to solve, and fling a final chal- 
lenge to my reason ! Well, let it come ! let my frail foe 
appear armed from head to foot ; I will not renounce the 
struggle yet. Perhaps then only shall I be able to grasp 
the secret of which its incomplete formation has thus 
far permitted me to catch but a glimpse. But will you 
bloom ? Will you appear before me some day in all the 
splendor of your beauty and festal array, Picciola ?" 1 

Picciola ! that was the name which he gave it when, 
with a craving to hear the sound of a human voice in his 
ear amidst his tasks, he conversed aloud with the com- 
panion of his captivity as he surrounded it with his cares. 
" Pov era Picciola /” Such was Ludovic’s exclamation 
when he sympathized with the " poor little thing ” who 
had come near dying of thirst. Charney remembered it. 

"Picciola ! Picciola ! will you blossom soon ? ” he repeated, 
cautiously parting the leaves at the tips of the branches, 
to see if there were any signs of a flower ; and that name 
of Picciola was sweet to his ear, for it reminded him alike 
of the two beings who peopled his world — his plant and 
his gaoler. 

One morning, at the hour of his daily walk, as he ques- 
tioned Picciola, leaf by leaf, his eyes suddenly rested on 
one part of the plant and his heart beat violently. He 
put his hand to it and the blood rushed to his head. It 
was long since he had felt so lively an emotion. He saw 
1 Little one. 


40 


PICCIOLA. 


at the tip of the main stalk an unwonted growth of green- 
ish hue, silky, spherical, covered with tiny scales, one above 
the other, like the slates on the rounded dome of some 
elegant kiosk. 

There was no room for doubt ; that was a bud. The 
flower was not far off. 


CHAPTER VII. 


The "flycatcher” came often to his window and took 
pleasure in watching the Count, so busily employed about 
his plant. He saw him mix his mortar, weave his mats, 
and construct his trellis work, and like him a captive, and 
a captive for a longer time than he, he readily entered in 
thought into the philosopher’s anxieties. 

At that same grated window another face, fresh and 
smiling, now appeared. It was that of a woman — a young 
girl whose bearing is at once alert and timid. In the 
carriage of her head, in the flash of her eyes, modesty 
alone seems to temper vivacity. 

Is she one of those angels of charity who visit prisons ? 
No; filial love alone has thus far filled her heart. The 
daughter of Girhardi, the Italian, the " flycatcher,” she has 
left Turin, its gaieties, its lovely walks, and the shores 
of the Doria-Riparia, to take up her abode in the little 
town of Fenestrella, not at first allowed to see her father, 
but to breathe the same air with him, to think of him, to 
be near him. Now, by dint of entreaties and prayers, she 
has obtained permission to visit him occasionally, and that 
is why she is so happy, so fresh, and so fair ! 

Curiosity leads her to the grated window which looks 
out on the little court ; a feeling of interest holds her 
there in spite of herself, for she fears lest the prisoner 
should see her. She need not fear ; Charney will not see 
her ; just now Picciola and her opening bud wholly engross 
him. 


41 


42 


PICCIOLA. 


A week later, when the young girl again visited her 
father, she turned furtively to the tiny window to glance 
at the other prisoner; Girhardi holds her back, 

" For three days he has not visited his plant,” he says, 
" The poor man must indeed be ill.” 

" 111 ! ” she says with a look of surprise. 

" I saw the doctors cross the yard, and according to 
what Ludovic tells me, they are only agreed on one point ; 
that is, that he will very likely die.” 

" Die ! ” repeated the young girl, and her eyes filled 
with tears, and her face assumed a look of terror rather 
than of compassion. " Oh ! how I pity him ! poor fellow ! ” 
Then, gazing at her father with agony and alarm : " Do 
people die here, then ? Or rather, how can they live ? 
No doubt the confinement in this prison and exhala- 
tions from the old moats caused his illness ! ” she 
cried, pressing the old man in her arms ; for while she 
spoke of Charney she thought only of her father. 

Girhardi tried to console her and clasped her hand. 
She covered his own with tears. 

At this moment Ludovic came in with a fresh victim 
which he had just caught for the " flycatcher.” It was a 
fine beetle ( Scarabeus auratus ), which he held out with 
a look of triumph. 

Girhardi smiled, thanked him, and slyly set the insect 
free, for it was the twentieth of the same species which 
Ludovic had brought him in a few days. 

He then inquired for Charney. 

" Permio santo padrone ! said Ludovic, ff I don’t neglect 

him any more than I do the rest; and so long as he is not 

1 By my patron saint. 


PICCIOLA. 


43 


in God’s keeping , 1 he will be in mine, Signor. I have just 
watered his plant.” 

" But why, if he can never see it bloom ? ” asked the 
young girl sadly. 

"PerchZ, Damigella?” 2 said Ludovic. Then he added, 
with a knowing air and his usual wink : " The doctors 
think that the poor fellow is laid on his back forever 
but I, the gaoler, non lo credo ! 3 Odd zounds ! I have 
my secret.” 

He turned on his heel and left the room with an effort 
to resume his rough voice and stern look, in order to warn 
the girl that by his watch she had but twenty-two moments 
more to spend with her father. At the end of that time 
he returned and saw that his orders were obeyed. 

Charney’s illness was but too real. Be the cause what 
it might, one night, after paying his usual visit and cus- 
tomary attentions to Picciola, a strange feeling of lassitude 
overcame him. With heavy head and trembling limbs he 
went to bed, scorning to call for help and trusting that 
sleep would cure him. 

Not sleep but pain visited him ; and next day, when 
he tried to rise, a power stronger than his will held him 
fast to his couch. He closed his eyes and submitted. 

In the hour of danger the philosopher recovered his 
composure, the conspirator his pride. He would have felt 
it a disgrace to utter a sigh or a groan, or to implore the 
help of those who had parted him from the world. He 
merely gave Ludovic a few directions in regard to his 
plant, in case he was confined to his bed for any length 
of time, in that durance vile now added to his other cap- 
2 Why, Miss ? 


Dead. 


3 I think not. 


44 


PICCIOLA. 


tivity. The doctors came and he refused to answer their 
questions. He felt that his life being no longer his own, 
he was not responsible for its preservation, any more than 
he was for the management of his confiscated estates, and 
that those who had taken possession of him and of all his 
worldly goods must care for him now. 

The doctors paid no heed to his obstinate silence at 
first and insisted. Discouraged at last by his persistency, 
they resolved to question the disease itself. 

Each of them read the symptoms in his own way, for 
each of them belonged to a different school. One saw 
sure signs of a putrid fever, another those of inflammation 
of the bowels ; the third opined that it was apoplexy or 
paralysis, and declared that the patient’s silence was due 
to inflammation of the brain. 

The commander of the fortress paid two visits to the 
sick-room. The first time he came, he asked if the patient 
had any wish which he could gratify ; he even offered to 
change his quarters, if there were reason to think that the . 
cell was damp or unwholesome. The count merely shook 
his head. 

The second time he came, the commander brought a 
priest. Charney being given up by the doctors, it was 
his duty to prepare the prisoner to receive the consolations 
of religion. The priest, summoned to the sick man’s side, 
understood, not only by the patient’s silence and immo- 
bility, but better yet by the inscriptions on the wall, how 
little response he could hope for from that proud spirit. 

He was content to pass the night in prayer by the bed- 
side, interrupting his pious office to share with Ludovic 
the cares which the latter lavished on the patient. 


PICCIOLA. 


45 


During the night, the turning point of the disease, 
Charney became delirious, and priest and gaoler were 
forced to unite their efforts to prevent their patient from 
springing out of bed. And while he struggled in their 
arms, amid incoherent words and wild ravings, he ever and 
anon repeated the words " Picciola ! povera Picciola ! ” 

" AndiamOy andiamo ! 1 The time has come,” muttered 
Ludovic. "Yes, it is high time,” ... he repeated impa- 
tiently; " but how can I leave the chaplain here alone to 
wrestle with this madman ? And yet in an hour it may 
be too late ! Ah, holy Virgin ! I think he is growing 
calmer; ... he shuts his eyes, he stretches his arms as 
if to sleep ! If when I return he is still alive, hurrah ! 
huzza ! hurrah ! ” 

In fact, the sick man’s delirium had ceased ; Ludovic 
begged the priest to watch him and hurried from the 
room. 

In that room, dimly lit by a flickering lamp, there was 
no sound save the irregular breathing of the sick man, the 
monotonous prayer of the priest, and the Alpine wind 
which muttered between the bars. Twice the sound of a 
human voice broke in. It was the challenge of the sentinel 
as Ludovic passed and repassed the sentry on his way to 
his own house, and again on his return. 

Scarce half an hour later he reappeared, bearing a bowl 
filled with some steaming liquid. 

" My Lord ! I came near killing my dog,” said he. 
" He began to howl ; that ’s a bad sign . 2 But how is he ? 
Has he been out of his head again ? Anyhow, here ’s 

1 Come, come. 

2 It is an old superstition that if a dog howls the sick person will die. 


46 


PICCIOLA. 


something that will quiet him. I have just tasted it. It ’s 
as bitter as five hundred thousand devils ! . . . Excuse 
me, mio padre ! 1 just taste it yourself and see.” 

The priest waved away the bowl. 

"Well, you are right, it is not for us; a pint of Muscatel 
with plenty of slices of lemon would keep us up better 
this cold night ; is n’t that so, Signor Cappellano ? 2 But 
this is for him, only for him. . . . He must drink it; . . . 
he must drink it all ! Those are the orders.” 

As he spoke he poured part of the liquid into a cup, 
shook it and blew on it to cool it ; and when he thought 
it just right, he administered it to Charney, almost by 
force, while the priest held the sick man’s head. Then, 
covering his patient carefully, he said : 

"We shall see the effect; it can’t be long. I sha’n’t 
budge from here until the thing is settled. All my birds 
are caged ; they will not fly away, and my wife must do 
without me for once.” 

Seeing that nothing happened, he repeated his dose, but 
became somewhat alarmed when he saw no change in the 
state of the patient. He feared lest his imprudence might 
have hastened the end. He strode to and fro, stamping 
his foot, snapping his fingers, and shaking his fist at the 
bowl containing the rest of the liquid. 

Suddenly he halted to gaze at Charney’s pale and rigid 
features. 

" I have killed him ! ” he cried with a dreadful oath made 
up of French, Italian, and Provencal. 

The chaplain looked up quickly; Ludovic paid no heed 
to him but resumed his march, stamping, swearing, and 
1 Father. 2 Chaplain. 


PICCIOLA. 


47 


snapping his fingers harder than ever ; then at last, worn 
out with emotion, he knelt by the priest, and, muttering 
a mea culpa} he fell asleep in the midst of a prayer. 

When day dawned he still slept; the priest was still 
praying. A hot hand was placed on Ludovic’s head and 
he woke with a start. 

"A drink ! ” said the sick man. 

At the sound of that voice, which he had never expected 
to hear again, Ludovic opened his eyes wide and gazed in 
wonder at Charney, whose face was bathed in perspiration. 
Whether the disease had taken a turn, whether, nature 
helping, the prisoner’s vigorous temperament had conquered 
the evil, or whether the double dose administered by Lud- 
ovic was possessed of great sudorific power, this violent 
perspiration seemed to have restored the patient at once 
to life and reason. He himself directed what should be 
done for his comfort. Then, turning to the priest : " I am 
not dead yet, you see. If I get over this, and I hope I 
shall, I beg you will tell my trio of doctors that it is not 
to them that I am indebted, and that I want no more of 
their visits or their science, false and foolish like all the 
rest. I understood enough of their talk to feel sure that 
my recovery is due to a lucky chance alone.” 

" Chance ! ” murmured the chaplain, his eyes fixed on 
this sentence on the wall : " Chance is blind> arid it alone 
is the father of creation .” 

Then, solemnly pronouncing the final word which 
Charney himself had added : " Perhaps ! ” he left the 
room. 

1 Act of contrition, literally " my fault.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Absorbed in the pleasure of his success, Ludovic seemed 
lost in delight on hearing the Count’s words ; not that he 
paid any heed to what he said ; far from it ! But that his 
dying man should speak, look, live, sweat! It was this 
that so charmed and enraptured him. After a pause of 
admiring silence, he cried : 

" Vivat! vivat! che mcraviglia ! x He is saved ! Thanks 
to whom ? ” 

And he waved his empty bowl in the air, kissing it 
and lavishing upon it all the tenderest phrases of his 
vocabulary. 

"Thanks to whom ? ” repeated the prisoner. "Thanks 
to your kind care, perhaps, my good Ludovic. But if I 
really get well, the doctors will credit it to their prescrip- 
tions all the same, and the chaplain to his prayers.” 

"The glory is not due to them nor to me,” replied 
Ludovic, waving more frantically than ever. ... "As 
for the Signor Cappellano , ... I don’t know; ... he can’t 
have done anything but good ; . . . but it ’s some one else ! 
It ’s some one else ! ” 

"Why ! who is this savior, this unknown protector ? Let 
us hear who he is,” said Charney somewhat indifferently, 
for he fancied that Ludovic attributed his cure to the 
intervention of some saint. 

"It was no he,” said the gaoler, "but a she.” 

• "What ! you don’t mean to say ? The Madonna, was it ?” 

1 Hurrah, hurrah ! What a miracle ! 

48 


PICCIOLA. 


49 


"No, it was no madonna at all, Signor Conte . She 
who rescued you from death and from the devil’s clutches 
too no doubt, for you were dying without confessing your 
sins, was first and foremost, above and before all, ' la Sig- 
nora Picciola y Signorina la Piccioluia ! Piccioletta ! ’ 1 . . . 
my goddaughter. ... Yes, my goddaughter; for it was 
I who first gave her that name, . . . the name of Picci- 
ola! Didn’t you say so? So she is my goddaughter. 
... I am her godfather, . . . and I am proud of her, 
per Bacco / ” 2 

"Picciola!” cried the Count, starting up in bed and 
leaning on his pillow, his face expressing the utmost inter- 
est. " Explain, my good Ludovic, explain ! ” 

" Oh, yes, pretend to be astonished, do ! ” replied the 
latter with his usual wink. " Is this the first time she 
has done you the same service? When you have these 
attacks, isn’t it always that herb that cures you? You 
told me so, at any rate, and I remembered it, thank God ; 
for it seems that Picciola knows more in one of her leaves 
than all the bigwigs of Montpellier and Paris put together. 
Yes, my little goddaughter in this case would have put a 
whole regiment of doctors to rout, even were it a regiment 
of four battalions, four hundred men to a battalion ! Let 
me tell you, to prove it, that those three donkeys gave up 
the case and beat a retreat; they pulled the sheet up over 
your head and said you were a dead man ; while Picciola ! 

. . . Oh ! the brave little plant ! May Heaven preserve 
her seed ! . . . As for me, I sha’n’t forget the prescrip- 
tion ; and if ever my little Antonio falls ill, I shall make 

1 The lady Picciola, little Miss Picciola, sweet little Picciola. 

2 By Jove ! 


50 


PIC C /OLA. 


him drink it in tea and eat it in salad, though it ’s as bitter 
as aloes. She had only to show her face and the victory 
was complete ! For you are cured ; yes, really cured ; for 
your eyes are opened wide, you laugh ! . . . Ah ! hurrah 
for the illustrissima Signora Picciola! ” 

Charney enjoyed the loud, loquacious delight of his good 
keeper ; his return to life, the idea that he owed it to that 
same plant which had already charmed away his weary 
hours of captivity, inspired him with a genuine sense of 
pleasure, and a smile broke on his fevered lips, when sud- 
denly a painful, cruel thought flashed across his mind. 

"But,” he asked, "how did this plant cure me? How 
did you use it? ” 

And he trembled with dread as he asked the question. 
"Nothing could be simpler,” calmly replied the gaoler; 
" a pint of water and a good fire ; let it boil up three times ; 
... a perfect herb tea; how else could I use it? ” 

" Merciful heavens ! ” cried Charney, sinking back on 
his pillow, " you have killed her ! Ah ! I cannot blame 
you, Ludovic ; and yet, . . . my poor Picciola ! What 
shall I do? what will become of me without her? ” 

"Come, come, don’t get excited,” said Ludovic, ap- 
proaching him and assuming a most paternal tone to 
comfort the captive, who had given way to his grief like a 
child robbed of his favorite toy. "Don’t get excited, and 
don’t throw off your blankets. Listen to me,” he added, 
tucking in the blankets and smoothing the bedclothes. 
" Should I have scrupled to sacrifice an herb to save a 
man? No, of course not. Well, and yet I could not 
make up my mind to kill her at once and to thrust her into 
the boiling water whole. Besides, there was no need of 


PICCIOLA. 


51 


it. I only took a loan from her. With my wife’s scissors 
I clipped off a lot of leaves which she did not need at aU, 
a few little twigs without any buds, ... for she has three 
buds now ! What do you say to that, eh ? Is n’t that nice 
of her ! . . . The operation was quickly done ; she did 
not die of it. On the contrary, cap de Dious ! 1 She’s all 
the better for it ! And so are you too ! You see that you 
must be good ; ... be good, perspire well, make haste 
and get well, and you shall see her again ! ” 

Charney gave him a grateful look and held out his 
hand. 

This time Ludovic did not refuse to take it ; he pressed 
it affectionately, and his eyes were moist ; but suddenly, 
no doubt blaming himself for varying from the strict lines 
which he had laid down for his conduct, his face length- 
ened, his voice grew gruff ; still clasping the prisoner’s 
hand, but trying to deceive him as to the cause of his first 
impulse, he said : 

"There, you see you are throwing off your blankets 
again ! ” and he gently replaced the sick man’s arm under 
the coverings ; then with more warnings to be prudent, 
uttered in an official tone, he left the room humming 
gravely : 

I am a gaoler, 

That ’s my line : 

Better keep the key, 

Than a prisoner be. 


Proven 9a! oath. 


CHAPTER IX. 


That day and the next, a great weakness, the natural re- 
sult of the severe crisis through which he had passed, made 
Charney almost incapable of motion or thought ; but on the 
third day a perceptible improvement set in, and although 
still confined to his bed, he hoped soon to be able to resume 
his usual walks and to see his companion and preserver. 

For all his thoughts were of her. He cannot understand 
how that frail growth, found beneath his feet in his prison 
yard, should have healed his griefs, which the splendors of 
wealth and luxury could not divert ; should dispute him 
with death, to whom human knowledge had yielded him. 

He clung to Picciola with a feeling of superstition. His 
gratitude to that inert, insensible being was founded on 
nothing rational or premeditated ; but he felt a yearning 
to give his love in exchange for the benefits which he had 
received. Where reason ends, fancy begins. His imagi- 
nation took fire, and his affection for Picciola soon became 
worship. 

He persuaded himself that there was some supernatural 
link between them ; that there were secret attractions in 
matter ; inexplicable sympathies which draw men to plants. 
He who still refused to acknowledge God seemed about 
to accept the childish beliefs of fetichism 1 and judicial as- 
trology . 2 Picciola was his star, his Madonna, his talisman ! 

1 Idol worship, especially as practised by the natives of Western Africa. 

2 As opposed to natural astrology or astronomy, a science by which 
future events were said to be read by the planets and other celestial bodies. 

52 


PICCIOLA. 


53 


His imagination still excited by fever perhaps, he saw 
nothing in nature but Picciola. He searches his scientific 
memory to find similar instances, reviving the story of 
marvellous plants, from Homer’s moly 1 to Latona’s 2 
palm and Odin’s ash , 3 or the thorn which blooms in 
midwinter . 4 He recalled the Roman fig tree Rumina , 5 
the Celtic Teutates , 6 adored under the guise of an 
oak; the vervain 7 of the Gauls, the Greek lotus , 8 the 
beans of the Pythagoreans , 9 Bahman, the mallow of the 
fire worshippers , 10 the mandragora 11 of Hebrew priests, 
the miraculous effects of the Solomon’s seal and the 

1 A plant to which Homer ascribes miraculous properties. 

2 Mother of Apollo. 

3 Odin occupies the same place in Norse mythology as Jupiter in the 
Greek. The ash tree, Yggdrasil, the tree of the universe, has roots which 
run in three directions — to heaven, to the home of the Norse Giants, and to 
the under world. Under each root is a fountain of rare virtue. In the tree, 
which drops honey, sit an eagle, a squirrel, and four stags. At the root lies 
the serpent Withiiggo, gnawing it. The squirrel, Kataloshe, runs up the 
tree to sow strife between the eagle at the top and the serpent at the root. 

4 Glastonbury thorn. When Joseph of Arimathea reached the end of 
his travels, where Glastonbury Abbey now stands, near Wells, England, 
he planted his staff in the earth, and it still blossoms in midwinter. 

5 Tree under which Romulus and Remus were reared. Rumina is also 
the name of the Roman goddess who protected infants. 

6 God to whom the Celts offered human sacrifices. 

7 The holy herb, so known for its use in ancient rites and ceremonies, 
bound by the heralds around their heads when they declared war. 

8 Whose fruit was so sweet that those who ate it forgot all else. 

9 Followers of Pythagoras, a Greek philosopher, born about 6o8 b.c., 
who taught the doctrine of the transmigration of souls through various orders 
of animal existence. Beans being used in the ballot box, his followers were 
forbidden to eat beans, i.e ., to meddle with politics. 

10 Followers of Zoroaster, a Persian philosopher, date of birth uncertain. 

11 Mandrake, whose root is forked like a human being. Supposed to 
shriek when uprooted. Used in spells and incantations. 


54 


PICCIOLA. 


hazel rod . 1 He remembered the blue champak 2 of the 
Persians, which grows only in Paradise ; the Sipakhora, 
whose fruit, Ctesias 3 says, gives two hundred years of 
life; the Torba 4 tree, which shades the celestial abode of 
Mahomet with its branches; the Katso tree, yet more 
divine, which overhangs the head of God himself, and 
whose every flower is endowed with a soul. He thought 
of the Buddha tree, every leaf of which is inscribed with 
one of the many letters of the Thibetan alphabet, a vege- 
table poem varied and extended from season to season, an 
unending song in praise of the Hindu Christ. He attached 
symbolic meaning to the Japanese custom of rearing stat- 
ues of the gods upon pedestals of heliotrope and water- 
lilies. He admired the religious scruples of the Siamese, 
which forbid them to destroy certain plants or even to 
break a single leaf. He heard Charlemagne , 5 the law- 
giver and philosopher, from his western throne recommend 
to his people the wise culture of plants ; nay, he understands 
the love which Xerxes , 6 according to Claudius Aelianus 7 
and Herodotus , 8 bore for a plane tree, caressing it, sleep- 
ing in its shade, adorning it with ornaments of pure gold, 
and weeping when compelled to leave it. 

That which once excited his mockery and scorn and 

1 Supposed to bend when held over a spot where water or treasure may 
be found. 

2 A flower odious to bees, worn by Hindu women in their hair, sacred 
to the Hindu god of love. 

3 A Greek doctor of medicine, about 416 B.c. 

4 Stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mahomet. 

6 Proclaimed Emperor of the West, A.n. 800. 

6 King of Persia, 485-472 b.c. 

7 Roman writer of third century. 

8 Greek historian, called the " Father of History,” born 484 B.c. 


PICCIOLA. 


55 


lowered weak humanity now raises it in his eyes; for 
he knows what valuable lessons may be learned from a 
leaf or a stalk ; and in the customs of idolatry he now sees 
but the sense of gratitude which called them forth. Did 
not a slender reed suffice to procure man his first arrow, 
his first pen, his first instrument of music — the three 
great means of conquest? 

In this frame of mind, well on the road to health, ab- 
sorbed in thought, Charney was one morning in his room, 
which he had not left since his illness, when the door was 
thrown open and Ludovic entered with beaming face. 

" She is in bloom ! ” he cried. 

"What! . . . Picciola ? ” 

"Yes, ' Picciola , Piccioletta , figliaccia mia! * ” 1 

" In bloom ! ” repeated Charney, his eye kindling, his 
cheek reddening ; " in bloom ! ” and rushing to the stairs : 
" Oh ! I must see her ! ” 

In vain the good gaoler remonstrated, urging that it 
would be imprudent to go out so soon, that he must wait 
a day or two longer, that it was too early in the morning, 
the air was chill, that a relapse rarely forgives ; all was in 
vain. All he could do was to persuade the prisoner to 
wait an hour longer, until the sun could join the party. 

How slowly that hour passed ! And yet he did his best 
to fill it up. In the first place, for the first time since he 
was made a prisoner, he thought of his appearance ; yes, 
of his appearance, his dress, in honor of Picciola, of Pic- 
ciola in bloom ! His clothes were wrinkled, his hair un- 
combed, his beard long ; he made himself tidy. A mirror 
hitherto neglected and forgotten in his precious dressing 

1 My little goddaughter. 


56 


PICCIOLA. 


case, was brought out ; he shaved himself carefully, he 
shaved himself to visit his flower ! 

This is the invalid’s first outing, the visit of the sick 
man to his doctor, the grateful man to his benefactress, 
the lover to his lady ! 

And when he is ready, his eyes on the glass, he is 
amazed to find, in spite of his recent illness, that his eyes 
are less dull, his features less heavy, his forehead less 
wrinkled than of old. He remembers that he is still 
young, and understands that though there be bitter and 
poisonous thoughts which blight even the outer man, there 
are also others gifted with the power to rejuvenate. 

At the exact moment Ludovic appears. He helps the 
Count down the long, winding stairs ; and when the latter 
reaches the little courtyard, whether it be the pure air or 
the open sky, or the privilege of the sharpened faculties 
of one recovering from illness, it seemed to him that the 
perfume of his flower embalmed everything about him ; 
and to the flower he attributes the sweet sensations of 
well-being which he experiences. 

Of what use to the flowers are their sweet odors ? Do 
they themselves enjoy them ? 

No. 

Are they meant for the pleasure of animals ? 

Did you ever see a sheep or a dog pause before a rose 
to inhale its perfume ? 

Then it is for man alone that the rich treasures are 
meant. Wherefore ? 

That they may be loved, perhaps. 

Charney was not so far wrong, after all, when he be- 
lieved in the mysterious force attracting man to plants. 


PICCIOLA. 


57 


Picciola stood before him in all the splendor of her 
beauty ; she displayed to his eyes her many-hued and 
brilliant corolla ; white, purple, and pink were mingled in 
the broad petals fringed with tiny, silvery rays, upon which 
the sun shone until they twinkled like a luminous halo. 
Charney gazed at it rapturously ; he feared lest he should 
dim its lustre by a breath or wither it by a touch. He no 
longer dreamed of analysis and study ; he admired it, he 
enjoyed it with sight and smell. But soon another thought 
diverted him and his eyes strayed from the flower. He 
sees the marks of mutilation all along the stem, drooping 
branches, leaves torn by the scissors. The scars are not 
yet healed. He feels that he owes his life to the plant ; 
his heart swells with a feeling stronger and sweeter than 
mere admiration, and Picciola’s good deeds lead him to 
forget her beauty and her perfume. 


CHAPTER X. 


By order of the doctors the invalid was allowed for 
some days to walk in his courtyard whenever and as long 
as he chose. He was thus enabled to resume his studies 
with fresh ardor. 

Desiring to note down the observations made in regard 
to his plant from its first day until the present time, he 
tried to bribe Ludovic to procure ink, pens, and paper 
for him. He expected to see him frown, look important, 
require much urging, and yield at last, either from the 
interest he felt in his patient and his goddaughter, or 
from a spirit of gain ; for here was an opportunity to 
drive a trade. 

Not so. Ludovic at first took the suggestion cheerfully. 

"To be sure, Signor Cotite , nothing could be easier!” 
said he, filling his pipe and turning aside to take a few 
whiffs to keep it alight ; for he never smoked before 
Charney, who objected to the smell of tobacco. "I’ve 
no objection. But all those little articles are kept under 
lock and key by the governor, not by me. If you want 
writing materials, send in a petition pin presto} and per- 
haps you may get them.” 

Charney smiled but was not discouraged. 

" But to write that petition, my dear Ludovic, I should 
first require just what I ask for — ink, pens, and paper.” 

"To be sure, Signor Conte , to be sure. I put the cart 
before the horse, you see,” replied the gaoler. "This is 
1 At once. 

58 


P ICC 1 OLA. 


59 


the way the petition dodge is generally worked,” he added 
with a knowing air, his head thrown back and his arms 
crossed behind him. " I go to the governor and I tell 
him that you have a favor to ask, without saying what it 
may be. . . . That ’s not my affair ; it ’s his affair and 
your affair. If he can’t come to see you himself, he sends 
you one of his men. This man hands you a pen, a sheet 
of official paper, just one sheet; he holds the inkstand ; 
you write on it in his presence ; he seals the paper before 
you ; you return him the pen, he carries off the letter, and 
that ’s the end of it.” 

" But, Ludovic, I prefer to owe this favor to you and 
not to the governor.” 

" To me, mordious Z 1 Then you don’t know my orders ?” 
said the gaoler, instantly assuming his gruff, stern expres- 
sion. 

He took a long pull at his pipe, blew out the smoke 
slowly, as if to hold the Count at a distance, turned on 
his heel and left. And next day when Charney returned 
to the charge, he merely winked and shook his head. 

Too proud to humble himself before the governor, but 
too eager to carry out his plans to give them up so easily, 
the prisoner made a pen of a quill toothpick; he made 
shift to use his razor as a knife ; soot steeped in water 
and a gilt bottle in his dressing case did for inkstand and 
ink ; and fine white cambric handkerchiefs, a relic of his 
former splendor, served in the place of paper. 

In this way Charney, even when parted from Picciola, 
could still devote himself to her and write out the result 
of his observations. 


1 Provensal oath. 


60 


PICCIOLA. 


How surprising, how delightful they were ! How happy 
he would have been could he have imparted them to an 
attentive ear ! 

His neighbor, the " flycatcher,” seemed to him worthy 
of his confidences ; the face, which once struck him as so 
sullen, so severe, now seemed to beam with good-nature 
and to shine with intelligence. When from his little 
window the old man cast his half-dreamy, half-curious 
glance upon him and upon Picciola, Charney felt attracted 
by the glance. A gesture, a smile had indeed passed be- 
tween them, but the rules of the prison forbade them to 
speak, even to ask for each other’s health ; and the great 
student of the marvels of nature was forced to keep his 
precious discoveries to himself. 

Among these may be mentioned the strange power 
which he found his flower possessed of turning towards the 
sun and facing it throughout its course, the better to absorb 
its rays ; when they hid behind the clouds and rain threat- 
ened, the flower at once sought shelter beneath her folded 
petals, as a ship takes in sail before a storm. 

"Is heat so needful to it?” thought Charney; "and 
why? . . . Why should it fear a slight shower which 
would refresh it ? Oh ! I trust her now ; she will 
explain.” 

Picciola had already served him as a friendly physician ; 
she might at a pinch act as compass and barometer ; she 
was also to take the place of a clock to him. 

By dint of inhaling her perfume he fancied he noticed 
that it varied at different periods of the day. This phe- 
nomenon at first seemed to him an illusion of his senses ; 
but repeated experiments proved it a reality, and he found 


PICCIOLA. 


61 


that he could tell with perfect precision the hour of the 
day by the scent of his plant . 1 

The flowers had multiplied, and, especially towards 
evening, Picciola’s fragrance was at its height. Then 
how the happy captive loved to approach her! With a 
few boards, due to Ludovic’s generosity, he had built a 
little bench resting on four strong sticks sharpened at 
the end and driven in between the stones. A rough back 
board afforded him support when he chose to meditate 
and forget himself, living in the atmosphere of his plant. 
There he felt more at his ease than he had ever been on 
his rich, silken couches ; he sometimes spent hours there, 
recalling the days of his youth, which had passed without 
pleasure and without affection, wasted in the pursuit of 
empty dreams. 

Amid these retrospects he often fell into deep reveries, 
half waking, half sleeping, when his over-excited fancy 
filled the courtyard with delicious dreams. 

Once more he took part in those feasts where care had 
ever pursued him. He saw his old home in the Rue de 
Verneuil brilliantly lighted. The noise of carriage wheels 
rang in his ear ; by the light of torches they entered the 
wide court, and from the carriages stepped forth in turn 
fashionable beauties wrapped in fur ; dandies with nar- 
row-crowned felt hats, big cravats, and ribbon garters ; 
famous artists, with short hair and bare neck, in half 
Greek, half French costume ; generals with tri-colored 
sash ; 2 scientists and men of letters, with or without green 

1 The English botanist Smith found the same properties in the Antir- 
rhinum ripens (. British Flora , vol. iv, p. 658). 

2 The French colors, red, white, and blue. 


62 


PICCIOLA. 


collars . 1 A throng of lackeys showed them the way, 
their fresh liveries mocking at the old ones of the Con- 
ventional Assembly , 2 now gone out of fashion. 

In his drawing-rooms he again encountered all the 
freaks of the period. Toga and chlamys 3 rubbed against 
frock coat and cloak ; sandals with rosettes, laced and 
spurred boots trod the inlaid floor side by side with caliga 
and cothurnus . 4 Lawyers, writers, soldiers, bankers, min- 
isters, contractors, artists, and politicians mingled in this 
hubbub of the Directory. An actor talked with a mem- 
ber of the clergy ; a former nobleman with one who had 
been poor ; Aristocracy and Democracy clasped hands ; 
Learning and Wealth went arm in arm. 

Charney gazed with a smile at this medley of morals, 
conditions, and costumes. What was once a bitter and 
prolific source of contemptuous thoughts concerning all 
mankind now roused in him only a slight amusement at 
his own folly and futile efforts. 

Elegant women passed before him and greeted him with 
a smile. He recognized them. They were the wonted 
guests and the ornament of his brilliant parties when, 
rich and free, he was greeted as one of the fortunate of 
the earth. 

1 The badge of the Institute of France. 

2 Period previous to the Directory, when France was governed by the 
stern will of the National Convention (1792-1795). 

3 Toga, robe of Roman patrician. Chlamys, mantle fastened on the 
right shoulder by a clasp, worn by Greeks and Romans. Under the First 
Republic the French affected the dress and manners of the ancient Greek 
and Roman Republics. 

4 Caliga, a buskin studded with nails, worn by old Roman soldiers. Co- 
thurnus, boot with high heels and thick sole, worn by ancient actors to 
make them appear taller on the stage. 


PICCIOLA. 


63 


There shone unrivalled the haughty Tallien , 1 in Greek 
dress, costly jewels and rings even on her bare feet, scarce 
covered by light gilded sandals ; the charming Recamier , 2 
who in Athens would have been made a divinity ; and the 
sweet, plaintive Josephine , 3 ex-Countess de Beauharnais, 
who by dint of grace often passed for the most beautiful 
of the three. 

There were others still who were noticeable even beside 
these, dazzling in their beauty, their coquetry, and their 
dress. 

How young and fair they seem to Charney now ! How 
far more sweet and potent than of old ! How happy he 
would be, might he choose among so many charmers ! 

He tries to do so ; and after turning from one to an- 
other, suddenly in the midst he sees one, not with bare 
shoulders or decked in diamonds. . . . 

Simple in her dress and bearing, she timidly hangs her 
head and dreads to be seen. Yet she too is beautiful! 
She is young and dressed in white, with only her simple 
grace and the blush that colors her cheek to set off her 
charms. Charney never saw her before, and yet as he 
gazes at her, the others seem to fade and disappear; a 
sweet emotion fills his soul, he scarce knows why. 

But how his emotion grows when he sees in her dark 
hair a flower, its only ornament ! That flower ... is 
from his plant ! It is the flower of his prison ! 

He stretches his arms towards the young girl ; . . . sud- 
denly his eyes grow dim, everything swims before him ; 

1 Wife of pro-Consul Tallien. 

2 Wife of a rich Parisian banker, famed for her wit and beauty. 

8 Wife of Napoleon I and later divorced by him. 


64 


PICCIOLA. 


the music dies away ; the maiden and the flower seem to 
melt into one another ; clumsy paving stones replace the 
shining inlaid floor. Calm reason has returned ; memory 
destroys the illusion, reality the dream. 

The prisoner opens his eyes. He is on his bench ; his 
flower is before him and the sun is setting. 

The first few times that he became a prey to this hallu- 
cination Charney marvelled at it. These sweet dreams 
invariably came to him when he was seated on his bench 
beside his plant. After some consideration he thought 
he understood the phenomenon. Does not science teach 
that the gaseous emanations exhaled by plants sometimes 
produce slight and agreeable unconsciousness ? He now 
sees how far the relations between himself and his plant 
may reach, and the almost magic influence which it exerts 
over him. 

It is Picciola who gives him the brilliant balls at which 
he assists. 

But who is that modest, candid young girl, whose 
unlooked-for presence so moves and delights him ? Did 
he ever see her ? Like those other women, is she but a 
memory of his past life? He cannot recall her. How 
if she be a revelation of the future ? But has he a future, 
and dare he believe in revelations ? No ! the white-robed 
maiden with the modest blush, who eclipses and pales her 
brilliant rivals, is Picciola herself — Picciola personified 
and poetized in a dream ! 

Nay then ; it is she whom he shall love ! He will not 
forget her graceful form and the ingenuous look which 
she wore. Her sweet image shall henceforth beguile his 
weary hours ; for that fair girl, a smiling phantom sum- 


PICCIOLA. 


65 


moned to interrupt his solitude, his prison doors must 
needs fly open ; she will visit him, walk with him, talk 
with him, sit beside him, smile on him, love him ! She 
shall live by his life, his breath, his love ; and he will talk 
to her in fancy and see her with closed eyes ! 

Thus the prisoner of Fenestrella followed up his beloved 
studies with the no less bewildering charm of illusions, and 
advanced farther and farther into that sphere of poetry 
which one leaves, as the bee does the heart of the flowers, 
perfumed and laden with honey. Side by side with his 
positive life he had his life of imagination, the comple- 
ment of the other, without which man but half enjoys the 
benefits of the Creator. 

His time was now divided between Picciola the plant 
and Picciola the young girl. When weary of reasoning 
and study he had pleasure and love. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Continuing his study of the flower, Charney was daily 
lost in greater wonder at the ordinary marvels of nature. 
But his eyes were not able to pierce the delicate mysteries 
beyond the power of ordinary vision. He became impa- 
tient at his lack of power, when Ludovic gave him, in the 
name of his neighbor, the Italian conspirator, a powerful 
microscope, with which he himself had numbered eight 
thousand ocular facies on the cornea 1 of a fly. Charney 
trembled with joy. 

Thanks to this instrument the least perceptible parts 
of the plant were suddenly brought into bold relief, in- 
creased a hundred-fold. He now advanced, or thought 
he advanced, rapidly on the road to discoveries. 

Unknown to him, during these hours of rapturous study, 
Charney had often two attentive spectators who followed 
his every movement and sympathetically shared his every 
emotion — Girhardi and his daughter. 

The latter, trained by a deeply religious father, living a 
solitary and contemplative life, had one of those natures 
made up of all holy enthusiasms. With her beauty, her 
virtues, the graces of her mind and person, she had not 
lacked admirers ; gifted with deep and broad sensibilities, 
she seemed made for tender affections ; but if she had felt 
any slight preferences amidst the gaieties of Turin, her 
father’s imprisonment had swallowed them all in one great 
sorrow. 

1 Outer transparent part of the eyeball. 

66 


PICCIOLA. 


67 


But since she has seen Charney she feels interest and 
compassion for him. He is a captive like her father, 
and with her father ! He has nothing to love but a 
plant, and how dearly he loves it ! 

No doubt the prisoner’s face, his noble brow, his grace- 
ful figure had their share in arousing the young girl’s pity ; 
but if she had known him in the days of his wealth, when 
a false show of happiness surrounded him, she would not 
have distinguished him from others. What charmed her 
in him was his loneliness, his misfortune, his submission. 
She instinctively bestowed on him her friendship, her es- 
teem ; for, in her ignorance, she ranks misfortune among 
the virtues. 

As ready to do a good deed as she was slow to meet 
the gaze of a stranger, perhaps too unconscious of dan- 
ger, she encourages her father in his kindly feeling for 
Charney. 

At last Girhardi, standing at his window, not content 
to greet the Count with a gesture as usual, beckoned him 
to come as close as possible, and lowering his voice, as if 
afraid of being overheard, he enters upon the following 
conversation : 

"Perhaps I have some good news for you, sir.” 

"And I, sir, have to thank you for the microscope you 
were kind enough to lend me.” 

" It was not my idea ; it was my daughter who suggested 
it to me.” 

"You have a daughter, sir, and you are allowed to see 
her ? ” 

"Yes, I am a father, and I thank Heaven for it daily. 
My poor child took a great interest in you, my dear sir, 


68 


PIC CIO LA. 


when you were ill, and since then too, seeing you lavish 
such care on your flower. Have you never seen her 
through these bars ? ” 

"Why, yes; ... I think I have.” 

" But in talking of my daughter I forgot to give you 
the piece of news. The Emperor is going to Milan, where 
he is to be consecrated as King of Italy.” 

" King of Italy ! Then, sir, he will be more than ever 
your master and mine. As for the microscope,” added 
Charney, who paid but little heed to the great piece of 
news, and did not dream that there was more to it, "I 
have robbed you of it for a very long time. . . . Forgive 
me, I may need it for my next experiments ; but I will 
return it to you . . . soon.” 

" I can do without it, I have others,” kindly replied the 
" flycatcher,” guessing from the tone of his voice how much 
it cost his neighbor to part with the microscope; "keep 
it, sir, keep it in memory of a fellow-prisoner who feels, 
believe me, the utmost interest in your welfare.” 

Charney strove to express his gratitude to the generous 
man ; the latter cut him short : 

"But let me finish what I have to tell you.” 

And, speaking still lower : 

" I hear that a number of pardons will be granted on 
the occasion of the new Emperor’s second coronation. 
Have you friends in Turin or Milan ? Can you get them 
to move in the matter ? ” 

Charney sadly shook his head. 

" I have no friends,” he said. 

" No friends ! ” repeated the old man with a look of 
compassion; "have you lost faith in men? Friendship 


PICCIOLA. 


69 


never fails those who believe in her. Well ! I have 
friends, friends whom even adversity has not shaken ; 
perhaps they can do for you what they have not yet been 
able to do for me.” 

" I will ask no favors of General Bonaparte,” replied 
the Count in a proud, curt tone which plainly revealed 
his ancient hostilities. 

" Hush ! Speak lower. ... I thought I heard some 
one. . . . No, I was mistaken — ” 

There was a slight pause ; then the Italian went on in 
a tone of paternal reproach : 

w Dear friend, you are still bitter ; I thought your studies 
of the past few months had killed those hatreds which 
are odious to God and which warp a man’s life. So the 
kindly virtues of your flower have not wholly healed the 
wounds inflicted by society ? I have possibly more reason 
than you to complain of this Bonaparte whom you hate, 
for my son died in his service.” 

" So you strove to avenge your son ! ” Charney hastily 
broke in. 

" I see that those false reports have reached your ears,” 
said the old man, raising his eyes to heaven, as if to appeal 
to the witness of God. " I, revenge myself by a crime ! 
no ; but in my first grief I could not. control my feelings, 
it is true ; and while the people of Turin hailed the victor 
with shouts of joy, my cries of despair mingled with the 
cheers of the mob. I was arrested ; I had a knife about 
me. Wretches, to curry favor with the master , 1 readily 
persuaded him that I had attempted his life. I was treated 
as an assassin, and I was only an unhappy father who had 
1 Napoleon. 


70 


PICCIOLA. 


just heard of his son’s death. Well ! I can understand 
that he was deceived ; I even understand that Bonaparte 
is not a cruel man ; for he did not put either you or me 
to death. If he sets me free, it will merely be in repa- 
ration of a mistake; but I shall bless him all the same; 
not that I cannot endure my captivity! Full of faith in 
Providence, I submit to anything and everything. But 
my imprisonment distresses my daughter; it is for my 
daughter’s sake that I would be free, to put an end to her 
exile from society, that she may again enjoy the pleasures 
suited to her age. Have you no one, too, in whom you 
feel an interest, no woman who weeps for you, for whom 
you would rejoice to sacrifice the pride which your sense 
of oppression inspires ? Come, permit my friends to 
speak for you ! ” 

Charney smiled. " No woman weeps for me,” he said ; 
" no one sighs for my return. What should I do in the 
world, where I was not so happy as I am here ? But were 
I to find friends, fortune, and happiness there, I should 
still say no ! a thousand times no ! if to regain them I 
must bow before the power which I strove to destroy.” 

" What ! you forbid yourself to hope ? ” 

" I will never salute as Emperor a man who was my equal.” 

"Beware lest you sacrifice your future to a feeling 
of vanity rather than patriotism; . . . but . . . hush!” 
again said old Girhardi. " I am not mistaken now ; some 
one is coming ! Good-bye ! ” 

And he left the grated window. 

" Thank you, thank you for the microscope ! ” cried 
Charney before he had quite disappeared. 

At this moment Ludovic opened the door of the yard. 


P ICC 10 LA. 


71 


He brought the prisoner’s daily supply of provisions. He 
saw that Charney was moody and thoughtful, and, unwill- 
ing to disturb him, he merely rattled the plates in his 
hand, as he passed, in token that dinner was ready. Putting 
the dishes in the prisoner’s cell, he withdrew with a silent 
bow to the " gentleman and his lady,” as he sometimes 
said ; that is, to the man and his plant. 

"The microscope is mine!” thought Charney. "What 
have I done to deserve such kindness from a stranger? ” 
And as he saw Ludovic cross the yard : " He too has won 
my esteem ; under his tough skin beats a noble heart, I 
am sure. Then there are good and feeling souls ; but 
where have they sought refuge?” 

An inward voice seemed to answer : " It is because mis- 
fortune has taught you to understand a benefit, that men 
appear less worthy of your scorn. What have those two 
men actually done ? One watered your plant without 
your knowledge, the other gave you the means to analyze 
it, to become better acquainted with it.” 

"Oh ! ” thought Charney, " the heart does not err; theirs 
was true generosity.” 

"Yes!” resumed the voice; "but it was because that 
generosity was shown to you that you do them justice. 
Had Picciola never been born, of these two men one 
might still be in your eyes an imbecile old man given 
over to degrading tasks; the other a coarse fellow, of 
mean and sordid avarice ! In your former world, Sir 
Count, did you ever love any one or anything ? No, your 
heart, like your mind, was given, to solitude. Here it is 
because you love Picciola that these two men love you ; 
it is through her that they were drawn to you.” 


72 


PICCIOLA. 


Charney gazed alternately at his plant and his precious 
microscope. Napoleon, Emperor of the French, King of 
Italy ! Those terrible words, one-half of which had once 
sufficed to make him a furious conspirator, made scarcely 
an impression on him now. 

What does he care for the triumphs of the newly elect 
of the nation, and the liberties of Europe ? An insect 
which buzzes threateningly about his flower causes him 
more agony and anxiety than all the encroachments of the 
new Empire ! 


CHAPTER XII. 


He has resumed his labors ; armed with his microscope, 
now his very own, he has repeated his observations, he 
has extended the field of his discoveries, and his enthusi- 
asm grows ever greater. He invents countless theories 
concerning the circulation of the sap, the way in which it 
rises, spreads, and becomes a part of the living plant, 
without suspecting its double current ; concerning the 
various hues of his plant and the source of the different 
savors of the stalk, the leaves, and the flowers ; regarding 
the gum and resins distilled by herbs ; regarding the wax 
and honey made from them by bees. He found an answer 
for everything ; but each day new systems destroyed those 
of the day before, and he himself rejoiced in his weakness, 
since it obliged him to exert all the powers of his mind 
and his imagination, and prevented him from seeing any 
limit to his enchanting occupations. 

Aided by his microscope he devoted himself wholly to 
his studies ; he watched, he waited, until at last his eyes 
grew dim ; the microscope dropped from his hand ; the 
vanquished philosopher sank upon his rustic seat, crossed 
his arms, and after long meditation thus addressed his 
plant : 

"Picciola, I was once free to roam the earth; I had 
many friends, I was surrounded by scientific men ; well ! 
none of those learned men ever taught me so much as 
you have ; not one of my friends, or, rather, of those who 
usurped that title, ever rendered me the good offices that 

73 


74 


PICCIOLA. 


you have done ; and in this narrow space of ground where 
you lead a wretched existence between two paving stones, 
pacing hither and yon, never taking my eye from you, I 
have thought more, felt more, observed more than in all 
my travels throughout Europe ! How blind I was ! When 
I first saw you so feeble, wan, and drooping, I expected 
nothing of you, and it was a companion that you offered 
me, a book that you opened for me, a world that you 
revealed to me ! 

' r That companion soothed my sorrows and drove them 
away; she attached me to the existence which she pre- 
served for me ; she taught me to know men and recon- 
ciled me to them ! That book made me despise all other 
books ; it convinced me of my ignorance and humbled 
my pride ; it compelled me to admit that knowledge, 
like virtue, can only be won through humility. It is 
the book of light ! Written in living characters, in 
a tongue as yet mysterious to me, it offers me sublime 
enigmas to read, every word of which is a consolation ! 
That world is the world of one and absolute truth ; it is 
the intelligent creation ; it is the sum total, the criterion 
of the eternal and celestial world, the revelation of that 
immense law of harmony and love which rules the uni- 
verse, which gravitates atoms and suns, which unites in 
a single link both the plant and the planets, the insect 
grovelling on the earth, and the man looking up to heaven 
to find ... its author, no doubt ! ” 

Charney, deeply moved, strode up and down ; thought 
succeeded thought ; a struggle raged in his conscience ; 
then he turned to Picciola, gazed at her with emotion, 
glanced hastily towards heaven and murmured: 


PICCIOLA. 


75 


"All powerful God ! invisible source whence proceed 
all harmony, all fertility, so much false learning has 
obscured my reason, so many sophistries have hardened 
my heart that Thou canst not enter it so soon. I cannot 
hear Thee yet, but I call Thee ; I cannot see Thee, but I 
seek Thee ! ” 

Returning to his room, he read upon the wall : 

" God is but a word.” 

He added : 

" May not that word be the answer to the great riddle of 
the universe ? ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Thus his days passed away. After devoting hours to 
study and analysis, weary of his labors and seeking to 
divert his mind, he left Picciola the flower for Picciola the 
young girl. 

When his head grew heavy and waves of perfume from 
the blossom filled his senses, when his eyes shunned the 
light of day, he would say : 

"To-night Picciola will entertain.” 

And he would yield to that semi-slumber peopled by 
dreams but still somewhat subject to the light of reason. 

Oh ! is it not one of the most bewildering joys permitted 
to man to guide his dreams whither he will, and enjoy as 
he pleases that other life where events crowd upon events, 
where centuries cost us but a single hour’s existence, 
where magic hues seem to cover all the actors in the 
drama, where emotions alone are real ? 

Charney yielded to his illusions. True to Picciola’s 
sweet image, it was she whom he summoned ; she was 
ever first to appear to him, always with the same features, 
the same graces, young, modest, charming, now appearing 
among his former companions of study or of pleasure, 
now with the only beings he had truly loved, and who 
were no more — his mother, his sister. Having revived 
his dead family, the joys of his past, did she point the 
way to another family, destined to exist for Charney some 
day; did she foretell for him future joys? He could not 
76 


PICCFOLA. 


77 


say; but when he awoke he felt confidence in his fate 
and regularly noted down in his journal, on fine cambric, 
the incidents of his dreams ; they were the only happy 
events of his life, to say nothing of his captivity. 

And yet once during one of those feasts when he usu- 
ally found peace and happiness with her, Picciola filled 
him with sudden alarm. Later on he recalled it only to 
believe in revelations and the foreknowledge of the mind. 

The perfumes of the plant showed that it was six o’clock 
in the evening. Never before had they been so rich, so 
powerful, for thirty full-blown flowers combined to produce 
that magnetic atmosphere which lulled Gharney’s senses. 

Withdrawing from the crowd, he breathed the air upon 
a green slope, where his beloved phantom had alone ac- 
companied him. Picciola advanced towards him smiling, 
and he gazed admiringly at her slender figure, the flowing 
folds of her white dress, and her black curls, in which was 
the accustomed flower. Suddenly he sees her hesitate ; 
she totters, she stretches out her arms to him ; the seal 
of death is on her brow. He strives to rush towards her; 
an obstacle which he cannot overcome holds him fast ; he 
utters a shriek and wakes. As he wakes he hears another 
cry in answer to his; yes, a cry — a woman’s voice. 

And yet he was in his courtyard, on his bench, beside 
his plant ! And now before his wide-open, bodily eyes 
another apparition of a maiden appears at the little grated 
window. At first the graceful, melancholy form seen in 
the dim light seems vague and uncertain ; but it gradu- 
ally becomes more distinct ; he springs up, hastens towards 
it, and all at once the sweet vision fades, or, rather, the 
young girl disappears. 


78 


P ICC /OLA. 


Rapid as was her flight, he still plainly saw her features, 
her figure, her white dress ; he stands motionless ; he 
thinks he is still dreaming, and that the insuperable 
obstacle which parted him from 'Picciola was the prison 
bars ! 

Ludovic came hurrying up in great amazement, and 
finding Charney still profoundly agitated, he says : 

"Is your illness coming back, Signor Conte ? Good 
gracious ! We’ll call in the doctors, for that is the rule; 
but never fear, mistress Picciola and I will answer for 
your cure in spite of them.” 

"I am not ill,” replied Charney, scarcely recovered from 
his emotion. " What made you think so ? ” 

" The 'flycatcher’s ’ daughter, to be sure ! She saw you, 
she heard you shriek, and she made haste to call me ; was 
that not what she should have done, poor thing? ” 

Charney then remembered that a young girl sometimes 
visited that part of the fortress. 

"The resemblance which I fancied between the stranger 
and Picciola was only an error of my senses, a very com- 
mon optical illusion,” thought he. "The eye often retains 
the image of the object upon which it has been resting. 
How strange to see that sweet image pass from the life 
of dreams to the life of reality ! And yet Picciola’s image 
did not wholly live in the young girl, nor did she wear a 
flower in her hair.” 

As he compared them he recalled the interest which 
the young Piedmontese had already shown in him, as her 
father had told him. 

She pitied him when he was ill ; it was to her he owed 
his precious microscope ; she was interested in his dear 


PICCIOLA. 


79 


studies ; even now, by summoning Ludovic, she had given 
him fresh proof of her kindness ! 

His heart swelling with gratitude, he felt an overwhelm- 
ing desire to express it. But how? 

Not without some hesitation, not without secret self- 
reproach, as if he were guilty of profanation, he breaks 
off, he silently plucks with a trembling hand, a small 
flowery spray from his plant. 

"Once,” thought he, "I lavished diamonds and pearls 
upon false friends, who heeded not the heart which I laid 
at their feet ! Ah ! if the offering is only to be estimated 
by the value attached to it, I swear no gift more precious 
was ever offered by me than this which I now borrow 
from you, Picciola ! ” And putting the little branch in the 
gaoler’s hand he said : " My good Ludovic, give this from 
me to my old comrade’s daughter. Tell her that I thank 
her for the interest so kindly shown to me, and that Count 
Charney, poor and a prisoner, has nothing worthier of her 
acceptance.” 

Ludovic took the flower in amazement. 

He so fully appreciated the prisoner’s love for his plant 
that he could scarcely understand why so slight a service 
should procure for the "flycatcher’s” daughter a mark of 
such lavish generosity. 

" Never mind ! ” said he, " per il capo di San Pasquale Z 1 
They have only seen my goddaughter from a distance; 
now they can judge from this specimen how lovely she is, 
and how sweet she smells ! ” 


1 By the head of my patron saint. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


As for Charney, he will soon have to make many simi- 
lar sacrifices, for the time has come for Picciola to go to 
seed. Some of her flowers have already lost their brilliant 
petals ; the stamens, now useless, have dropped ; the seed 
vessels begin to swell. 

Charney prepares for fresh experiments ; he must 
wound Picciola once more ; but she will readily repair 
her losses. At every joint, at the union of the leaves 
with the stem, new sprouts are shooting forth in token 
of future bloom ; and, besides, Charney will handle her 
tenderly. 

To-morrow he will set to work. 

Next day he takes his seat on the bench with the seri- 
ous look of a man who is about to try a difficult experi- 
ment, and one which may not succeed. At the first glance 
he is surprised at the languid state of the plant. The 
flowers, drooping on their stems, seem too feeble to face 
the sun ; the leaves hang their heads and have lost their 
glossy greenness. 

At first Charney thinks that a violent storm is at hand, 
and his first impulse is to spread his mats to protect 
Picciola from the rude assaults of wind or hail. 

But the sky is cloudless, the air is calm, and an invisible 
lark sings, lost in space. 

His face darkens. Then after a brief pause he says : 
f ' She wants water ” ; and he hastens to his room for it, 
kneels beside the plant and parts the branches that the 

80 


PICCIOLA. 


81 


water may reach the roots, but is suddenly struck motion- 
less. His gaze is fixed upon the ground ; the arm which 
holds the waterpot remains suspended, and every sign of 
surprise overshadows his brow. He has discovered the 
trouble. 

Picciola is dying. 

While she redoubled her blossoms and her sweet scents 
for his study and his delight, her stem was also increasing 
rapidly.. Confined at its root between two paving stones, 
choked by the double pressure, she at first threw out a 
large protruding ring, but the sharp edges of the stone 
soon wore it away, and the poor plant bled at several 
wounds. 

Picciola needs more space ; her strength and her life- 
blood exhausted, she will die if no help is at hand ! She 
will die ! Charney sees it plainly. There is but one way 
to save her ; that is, to take up the stones which grind her 
down ; but can he do it ? Without tools all his efforts 
would be in vain. 

He rushes to the gate ; he beats upon it frantically, 
shouting to Ludovic, who comes at last. 

The story, the sight of the disaster overwhelm him ; 
but, in spite of his affection for his goddaughter, he only 
answers Charney’s prayers and entreaties that he will take 
up the stones with a sigh and a shrug and these words : 

" And how about my orders, Signor Conte ? ” 

The prisoner offers him not one article only from his 
precious dressing case, but the entire case with all it con- 
tains. Ludovic stands erect, folds his arms tight across 
his breast, and resuming his official manner, his half Pro- 
vencal, half Piedmontese accent, says : 


82 


PICCIOLA. 


" Per Bacco! Mondious ! Not if you offered me all 
the treasures of the earth. ... I am an old soldier and 
I have my orders. Apply to the commanding officer.” 

"No!” cries Charney ; "rather break those stones 
myself, uproot them from the earth, were I to lose my 
nails in the task ! ” 

"We shall see about that ! But, as you like !” 

And Ludovic, who took care to hold his thumb over 
his pipe when he came in, and to keep it at a distance from 
the prisoner, now abruptly replacing it between his teeth, 
and taking a long whiff at it, prepares to go. Charney 
holds him back. 

" Dear Ludovic, you have always been so good to me, 
can you do nothing for me now, . . . nothing for her? ” 

" Nomdedious ! ” he replied, struggling to disguise his 
emotion by oaths ; "let me alone, you and your con- 
founded gillyflower ! Begging the 'povera s * 1 pardon ; she 
is not to blame for your devilish obstinacy. What ! would 
you really have the heart to let her die for want of help? ” 

" But what can I do ? ” 

"Apply to the commander, I tell you.” 

" Never!” 

" Come,” said Ludovic, "if it ’s too much for you, would 
you like to have me speak to him? ” 

" I forbid you ! ” cried Charney. 

"What! You forbid me!” exclaimed the gaoler. 
" Dcimnazione ! Am I to take orders from you ? How 
if I choose to apply to him ! Very well, so be it ! I 
will not speak to him. After all, you are right, it is 
none of my business. Let her die, or let her live ! It is 

1 Poor thing. 


PICCIOLA. 


83 


nothing to me! Che m importaf 1 You refuse? Good 
evening ! ” 

"But would your commander ever understand me?” 
said the Count, suddenly weakening. 

" Why not ? Do you take him for a kinzerlick ? 2 Ex- 
plain the matter to him nicely, with pretty phrases, . . . 
not too long ; you are a scholar ; now ’s the time to prove 
it. Why should n’t he understand the feeling that leads 
you to love your weed ? I understood it well enough. 
Besides, I shall be there, never fear ! I ’ll tell him how 
good it is, made into tea, for all sorts of trouble ; . . . he ’s 
not very robust, ... he has the rheumatism just now ; . . . 
it ’s very lucky; ... he ’ll understand all the better.” 

Charney still hesitated ; Ludovic winked and pointed 
to Picciola with her drooping head. The Count nodded 
and Ludovic went off. 

A few minutes later a man in half-military, half-civic 
dress 'brought the prisoner all the materials for writing, 
including a sheet of paper with official heading. As Ludo- 
vic had stated, this man remained while Charney wrote 
his petition ; he sealed it, bowed, and carried off the 
writing materials. 

Perhaps you smile with scorn to see the noble Count’s 
pride so soon subdued and his firm will yield at the 
sight of a faded flower. You forget what Picciola is to the 
prisoner. You do not know the influence which solitude 
and imprisonment exert on the proudest, most stubborn 

1 What is it to me ? 

2 Corruption of the German word Kaiserlich. At the time of the wars 
of the First Republic and the Empire, the French soldiers called the Ger- 
man soldiers, especially the Austrians, " Kaiserlichs.” By using the term, 
Ludovic means, " Do you think he does not understand French ? ” 


84 


PICCIOLA. 


will. He did not submit to this proof of weakness with 
which you reproach him, when he himself, depressed by 
illness, gasped for free air, crushed between his prison 
walls, like his plant between the stones. No ! But mutual 
obligations, solemn pledges have been exchanged between 
them ; she saved him from death ; he must needs save her 
in turn ! 

Old Girhardi saw Charney striding up and down, with 
every sign of expectation and impatience. How long the 
answer seemed in coming ! Three hours had passed since 
his message to the governor, and meantime the plant was 
perishing from the loss of sap. Charney would have seen 
his own blood flow with more composure, no doubt. 

The old man tried to comfort and encourage him ; more 
familiar than he with plants and their diseases, he told him 
how to close Picciola’s wounds, to rescue her from one at 
least of the dangers which beset her. 

By his advice Charney made a mixture of wet earth and 
straw chopped fine and applied it to the wounds. His 
handkerchief, torn into strips, supplied him with bandages 
to hold it in place. 

In these occupations another hour passed ; but still no 
answer came. 

At dinner time, when Ludovic appeared, his curt and 
bustling manner boded no good news. He scarcely 
deigned to answer the prisoner with a few short, sharp 
words. " Wait, diavolo! You are in a great hurry ! Give 
him time to write ! ” 

He seemed to foresee the part that he was to play in 
all this, and to prepare for it in advance. 

Charney ate no dinner. 


PICCIOLA. 


85 


He tried to wait patiently for Picciola’s sentence of life 
or death, and he tried to argue with himself that the gov- 
ernor could not refuse so simple a request, unless he was 
a very cruel man. 

But delay made him more and more impatient; he was 
amazed, as if the commandant might not have anything 
more important to do. At the slightest sound his eyes 
turned to the narrow door, through which he hoped to see 
the coming of an answer to his message. 

Evening came ; nothing ! Night fell . . . nothing ! 
He could not close his eyes. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Next day the eagerly awaited answer reached him. 
The commander informed him, in a dry, laconic style, 
that no change could be made in the walls, moats, or for- 
tifications of the citadel, without express permission from 
the governor of Turin ; that he would refer M. Charney’s 
request to His Excellency ; for, he added, " the pavement 
of a prisoji yard is also to be regarded as a wall!' 

Charney stood amazed. To make a State question of 
the existence of a flower ! A breach in the fortifications ! 
Await the decision of the Governor of Turin ! Wait a 
century, when a day might mean death ! Might not the 
governor in turn refer to the minister, the minister to the 
senate, the senate to the Emperor ? All his contempt for 
mankind revived suddenly ! Ludovic himself seemed only 
the tool of his tormentor. 

He approached the sufferer, whose lustre was tarnished, 
whose colors were dimmed. He gazed at her sadly. Her 
fragrance no longer indicates the true time of day, like a 
watch when the spring breaks ; the blossoms, drooping 
and hanging their heads, have ceased to turn towards the 
sun, as a dying girl closes her eyes that she may not see 
the lover whom she fears to regret too much. 

Amid his despairing thoughts he heard the voice of 
the old companion of his captivity : 

" Dear sir,” said the good old man in his fatherly tones, 
dropping his voice and bending his head to the lowest 
bars of his window in order to get as close as possible, 

86 


PICCIOLA. 


87 


" if it dies, and I fear it will die, what will you do here 
alone, all alone ? What tasks will divert you when that 
which had such charms for you is gone? You, too, will 
die of weariness ; solitude, once interrupted, becomes so 
hard to bear ! You cannot endure it ; you feel as I should 
if I were parted from my child ! that guardian angel 
whose smile consoles me for every grief ! As for your 
plant, some breeze from the Alps, some passing bird, no 
doubt, dropped a seed in the courtyard ; but should a 
similar chance send you another Picciola it would but 
renew your regret for the first, for you would continually 
expect to see it die in the same way. Take my advice ; 
let my friends try; yield to fate. Perhaps freedom is 
easier of achievement than you think. ... I hear many 
instances of the new Emperor’s clemency and generosity. 
He is even now at Turin, and Josephine is with him.” 

He spoke the name "Josephine” as if it were a sure 
omen of success. 

"At Turin?” interrupted Charney, quickly lifting his 
head. 

"At Turin, for the last two days,” repeated the old 
man, delighted to see that his good advice was not now, 
as heretofore, unheeded. 

"And what is the exact distance from Fenestrella to 
Turin ? ” 

"By way of Giaveno, Avigliano, and the highroad, it 
is sixteen miles.” 

"And how long would it take to go ? ” 

"At least four or five hours; for just now the road 
must be blocked by troops, coaches and carriages from all 
the surrounding country, going to attend the festivities. 


88 


P ICC 10 LA. 


. . . The road through the valleys, along the river, is 
longer, to be sure ; but I think it would take less 
time.” 

"Tell me, have you any means of communicating with 
some one outside who will go to Turin to-day . . . before 
night ? ” 

" My daughter will attend to it.” 

"And you say that General Bonaparte . . . the . . . 
first Consul . . .” 

"The Emperor,” gently suggested Girhardi. 

"Yes, the Emperor; the Emperor is still at Turin, you 
say ? ” resumed Charney, fairly carried away by a great 
resolve. " Well, I will write to him, I will send a petition 
... to the Emperor ! ” 

He dwelt on the word as if to strengthen his purpose. 

"Oh! thank God!” cried the old man; "for it is He 
who inspired that good idea and humbled your pride. . . . 
Yes, write; address your petition for pardon to him; my 
friends Forsombruni, Coterna, and Delarue will support 
you warmly, as they would support me, with Minister 
Marescalchi, Cardinal Caprara, and also with de Melzi, 
who has just been made keeper of the seals to the new 
kingdom. Dear comrade, perhaps we may leave this 
prison together, on the self-same day : you to return to 
active life, I to follow my daughter whither she will.” 

" Pardon, sir, pardon, if I do not seem wholly satisfied 
with the powerful help which you so kindly and unselfishly 
offer me. My gratitude and my esteem are yours ; but 
my petition must be placed in the hands of the Emperor 
himself to-night* to-morrow morning at latest. Can you 
promise me a faithful, trusty messenger ? ” 


P ICC 10 LA. 


89 


"Yes, one I can answer for as for myself!” said the 
old man after a little thought. 

" One question more,” added Charney, " do you not fear 
that you may be compromised by the great service you 
are to render me ? ” 

"The pleasure of obliging you destroys all fear, dear 
sir. If I can in any small measure help to lessen your 
misfortunes, come what may, I can bow to the will of 
Heaven ! ” 

Charney was moved to his inmost soul by these simple 
words ; he gazed at the old man with tears in his eyes. 

"Would that I might clasp your hand!” he said; and 
he raised his arm to the window. Girhardi stretched his 
arm through the bars ; but in vain ; he could not reach 
the hand that was held toward him. Then, inspired by 
one of those affectionate impulses so keen in the soul of 
a recluse, he suddenly untied his cravat, held one end of 
it and flung the other to Charney, who seized it raptur- 
ously, and a double pressure, a double emotion sent a 
quiver of grateful friendship through the inert rag. 

As he again passed Picciola, Charney whispered : " I 
will save you yet ! ” 

Reentering his cell, he took the finest and whitest 
of his handkerchiefs, carefully mended his toothpick, 
renewed his ink, and set to work. His petition written, 
which was accomplished not without many pangs to his 
pride, a slender cord was let down from the grated win- 
dow on the other side of the yard ; Charney fastened his 
petition to it and the string was drawn up. 

An hour later the person charged with the office of 
handing the paper to the Emperor set off with a guide 


90 


PICCIOLA. 


through the valleys of Suza, Bussolino, and St. George, 
along the right bank of the Doria-Riparia ; both were on 
horseback; but in spite of all their haste, unlooked-for 
obstacles delayed them. Recent rains had washed out 
the road, the river had overflowed in several places, and 
it was not until far on in the evening that they reached 
Turin. 

There they learned that the Emperor-King had left for 
Alexandria . 1 


1 A fortified town in Northern Italy. 


BOOK SECOND. 


CHAPTER I. 

Next day, with the earliest dawn, the city of Alexandria 
was in festal array. Vast crowds thronged the streets, 
carpeted and dressed with flowers and flags. The crowd 
moved from the town hall, where Napoleon and Josephine 
were lodged, to the triumphal arch erected at the end of 
the avenue, which they would traverse to visit the famous 
field of Marengo. 

There was to take place the most important feature of 
the day. The Emperor Napoleon would take part in a 
sham fight, in commemoration of the victory won on that 
very spot five years before by First Consul Bonaparte. 

Up and down the long street of the village of Marengo 
all the houses, turned into taverns, afford a lively scene 
of bustle and confusion. 

At every window, to attract and tempt purchasers, hang 
smoked hams, sausages, garlands of red partridges and 
quails, strings of potato balls and sweetmeats. French- 
men and Italians, soldiers and civilians come and go, push 
and crowd ; heaps of macaroni, pyramids of almond cakes, 
Italian paste and tartlets vanish before the army of cus- 
tomers. 

Up and down the dark, narrow staircases moves a double 
line of people ; some, loaded with their supplies, to hide 

9 1 


92 


PICCIOLA. 


them from the greed of their neighbors, hold their arms 
high above their heads, and, in the darkness, a hand nim- 
bler than their own snatches a dainty morsel, a buttered 
roll, a handful of oranges or figs, a small Turin ham, or a 
larded quail, or even a pie, or a tureen of stewed meat; 
dish and contents, all are taken ; and there are shouts, 
jokes, and endless laughter from the first step to the last. 
The robber in the ascending line, content with his gains, 
turns about and tries to descend ; he who was robbed, 
forced to return to the source of supplies, tries to remount, 
and the entire band, moved by this ebb and flow, swaying 
hither and thither amidst outbursts bf merriment, oaths, 
and haphazard blows, are driven forth, some into the 
streets, some to the tavern, where tipsy men are already 
bawling and shouting. 

Between the tables loaded with food and the benches 
loaded with guests, from room to room, move the mistress 
and the maidservants; the former with colored aprons, 
powdered hair, and the coquettish little dagger, still the 
chief ornament of the national attire ; the latter in short 
skirts, with long braids of hair, neck, breast, and ears 
loaded with imitation jewels, and their feet bare. 

Other scenes, other sounds will soon take the place of 
these lively pictures, these songs and shouts, this clash of 
plates and glasses. 

In an hour the cannon will roar, harmless cannon, 
indeed, which will do no more than break a few window- 
panes; the street will ring with the shouts of soldiers, 
and the houses will vanish in the smoke of . . . bl^nk 
cartridges. 

A gorgeous throne, surrounded by tricolored flags, is 


PICCIOLA. 


93 


already prepared on one of the hills overlooking the field; 
troops are already falling into position. Trumpets sound 
the cavalry call, and the roll of the drum is heard on every 
hand ; flags flutter in the breeze, and the sun, the favored 
guest of Napoleonic feasts, shines forth and strikes fire 
from the gold of embroideries, the bronze of cannon, the 
helmets, cuirasses, and the sixty thousand bayonets with 
which the field is bristling. 

Erelong the curious mob is driven back by the troops 
which pour in in double quick time ; the village is de- 
serted; men are hurrying in every direction, interrupted 
in their sports or their feasts; and women, alarmed by the 
flash of swords or the neighing of horses, drag their chil- 
dren out of the way. 

The chief incidents of the dreadful day of June 14, 
1800, are to be rehearsed ; but pains will be taken to omit 
any mistakes that may have been made, for this is intended 
as a skilful piece of flattery, a madrigal in cannonades 
for the new Emperor and King. 

All at once the drums beat a salute ; shouts and cheers 
are heard on every hand ; swords flash, clouds of dust 
arise, guns clink as if by a common impulse, and a showy 
carriage, drawn by eight horses and decked with the arms 
of Italy and France, bears Josephine and Napoleon to the 
foot of their throne ! 

The latter, after receiving the homage of deputations 
from all parts of Italy, envoys from Lucca, Genoa, Flor- 
ence, Rome, and even from Prussia, chafing at inaction, 
springs on his horse, and the whole plain is soon lit up 
with flames and covered with smoke. 

Such were the sports of the young conqueror ! 


94 


P/CC/OLA. 


An officer, chosen by the Emperor, explained the secret 
of these evolutions and the purpose of these movements 
to Josephine, left alone on her throne and almost terrified 
by the spectacle. 

As he spoke, Josephine noticed a slight stir close by. 
Asking the cause, she learned that a young girl who had 
rashly broken through the ranks, at the risk of being 
trampled underfoot by the cavalry, or crushed beneath the 
wheels of an ammunition wagon, had made this stir by 
her obstinate insistence upon speaking with Her Majesty, 
in spite of the resistance of the guards and the remon- 
strances of the maids of honor. 


CHAPTER II. 


On hearing that the Emperor had left Turin for Alex- 
andria, Girhardi’s daughter, Teresa, for it was she, who, 
with a guide, carried Charney’s petition, was at first over- 
come and almost discouraged. But she soon remembered 
that in her hands was the joy, the only hope of a poor 
prisoner. The Count had no idea who had undertaken 
the perilous task. Unmindful, therefore, of weather or 
of fatigue, she resolved to keep on, and told her guide that 
Alexandria and not Turin was to be their goal. 

" Ho ! ho ! ” said the guide, scratching his ear. " Why, 
that is twice the distance that we have already come.” 

" Well ! then we must set off at once.” 

"So I will, Signora,” he quietly rejoined ; "but it will 
be to turn my back on Alexandria as well as Turin ! Half- 
way to Rivoli I have a cousin whose daughter is to be 
married ; he may as well keep me and my horses for 
nothing ; it will be so much saved, to say nothing of 
the fun.” 

And when she objected he replied : " I do not refuse to 
take you back to Fenestrella to-morrow morning, as agreed ; 
will that suit you ? No ? Buon viaggio , Signora ! ” 1 

Nothing that she could say would move him. His 
purpose was fixed. 

Resolved to keep on her way, Teresa begged the mis- 
tress of the inn where she had put up, to procure her some 
conveyance to Alexandria as soon as possible. The land- 

1 A pleasant journey to you, Madam. 

95 


96 


PICCIOLA. 


lady sent her men to search the city, but in vain; public 
coaches, carriages, beasts of burden, saddle or pack saddle, 
all had been taken long ago, on account of the festivities 
at Alexandria. 

Teresa was in despair. She stood on the doorstep, lost 
in thought, when the noise of wheels and the sound of 
bells fell upon her ear. Two strong mules drew up before 
her, harnessed to a peddler’s big wagon. The peddler and 
his wife, dismounting from their seat, heaved sighs of 
satisfaction, stamped their feet, stretched their arms, and, 
greeting the landlady as an old acquaintance, they made 
themselves at home on the hearth, warming their hands at 
the crackling fire of vine branches ; then they ordered 
their mules to be put in the stable and supper to be 
brought, intending to go to bed as soon as possible. 

Teresa gazed anxiously at the couple, as if her only help 
lay in them. Unused to depend upon herself, she stood hesi- 
tating to address them, when the maid offered her a candle 
and a key, pointing to the room which she was to occupy. 

Recalled to a sense of her position, she waved aside the 
servant, and, timidly advancing to the table, said in a 
trembling voice : " Forgive my asking you, but which way 
are you going from Turin? ” 

"Towards Alexandria, my pretty maid.” 

"Alexandria! my good angel must have brought you 
here ! ” 

"Your good angel brought us by very bad roads, Sig- 
nore i,” said the woman ; "and we are worn out.” 

"Well, what can we do for you?” said the peddler. 

" Urgent business takes me to Alexandria ; can you 
carry me there ? ” 


PICCIOLA. 


97 


" Impossible ! ” said the woman. 

" Oh ! I will pay you well ! Ten crowns ! ” 

"It’s no easy matter,” said the man. "In the first 
place, the seat on the wagon is small ; it will hardly hold 
three. To be sure, you would not take up much room ; 
but there is another difficulty. We are going to the fair 
at Revignano, near Asti, and not to Alexandria. It is 
halfway, and that is all.” 

"Well!” said Teresa, "take me as far as Asti; but we 
must start to-night, at once.” 

" Impossible ! impossible ! ” repeated the pair. 

" I will double the price ! ” 

Husband and wife looked inquiringly at each other. 

" No, no ! ” said the woman ; " it would be enough to 
make us ill ; besides, Losca and Zoppa 1 are dead beat. 
Do you want to kill them ? ” 

"Twenty crowns!” muttered the man. "Twenty 
crowns ! ” 

" Losca and Zoppa are worth more than that.” 

However, the thought of the twenty crowns finally over- 
came their reluctance and the mules were again put to the 
wagon. 

Teresa, wrapped in her cloak, settled herself as best 
she might on the seat between the husband and wife, 
and they set out just as the clocks of Turin were striking 
eleven. 

In her impatience to reach her journey’s end, she would 
fain have been borne by steeds as swift as the wind; 
the mules plodded along slowly, lifting one foot after the 
other. At last she took upon herself to suggest that it 


1 Names of the mules. 


98 


PICCIOLA. 


was important for her to reach Asti promptly, in order 
that she might be at Alexandria by morning. 

"My pretty miss,” replied her new guide, "I am as 
loath to pass the night in counting the stars as you are, 
but a merchant must look to his wares. I have a stock of 
earthenware and china to sell at Revignano, and if my 
mules went any faster, they might smash all my wares to 
atoms.” 

Teresa reproached herself bitterly for not asking sooner 
how long it would take to get to Asti ; she blamed her- 
self particularly for not seeking some speedier means of 
transportation while in Turin, being familiar with the city 
as she was ; but there was nothing now to be done but to 
submit. 

The wagon pursued its accustomed course. Losca and 
Zoppa moved no faster nor slower ; the peddler and his 
wife, who had talked a good deal about the prospects of 
trade, were now silent ; and in the darkness, in spite of the 
painful numbness of her feet, due to cold, Teresa was 
lulled into a doze by the monotonous tinkle of the mule 
bells. Her head swayed from right to left, by turns seek- 
ing a pillow on the shoulder of the woman and the man. 

"Lean on me,” said her driver, "and rest well, my 
pretty miss.” 

She took his advice, made herself as comfortable as she 
could, and fell sound asleep. 

The brightness of dawn alone made her open her eyes. 
Surprised to find herself in the open air on the highroad, 
on looking about her she saw with terror and surprise 
that the wagon was at a standstill. The peddler, his wife, 
and the mules were all sound asleep. Close at hand were 


PICCIOLA. 


99 


spires and houses, and early morning mists displayed to her 
the beautiful mountain scenery of the country near Turin. 

"Merciful Heaven!” she cried, "where are we? Day 
is breaking and we have scarcely passed the outskirts of 
the town ! ” 

The peddler waked at her exclamation and, rubbing his 
eyes, tried to reassure her. 

"We are close to Asti,” he said, "and the spires that 
you see are those of Revignano. You need not scold Losca 
and Zoppa ; they have only indulged in a short nap, and 
they needed it sadly.” 

And he cracked his whip so loudly that both his wife 
and the mules started up. 

At the gates of Asti the good crockery merchant took 
leave of Teresa, crossed himself with the money which she 
gave him, and wishing her a successful journey, turned 
about and retraced his steps to Revignano. 

Half the journey was now accomplished ! On entering 
Asti she expected to find the entire population on foot, 
making ready to go to Alexandria ; but what was her sur- 
prise to find the streets deserted. Kneeling before a fig- 
ure of the Virgin enshrined in the wall, she prayed for 
help and strength. Just as she rose to her feet she heard 
steps, and a man appeared. 

"Please tell me, sir,” she said, "where I shall find car- 
riages for Alexandria.” 

"It is very late, my fair maid,” was the reply; "they 
were all engaged several days ago.” 

And he passed on. 

A second and a third appeared, a fourth and yet a fifth, 
who gave no more satisfactory replies. At last, as a spe- 


100 


PICCIOLA. 


cial favor, she obtained a seat as far as Ancona, from where 
it was engaged by another traveller. 

Between Ancona and Felizano she met with fresh vex- 
ations and difficulties, but triumphed over everything. 

When she reached Alexandria she was already aware 
that the Emperor was no longer there ; without a moment’s 
pause, therefore, she joined the crowd, all moving on foot 
towards Marengo. Crushed by the throng of sightseers, 
she hurried on as best she might in heat and dust, heed- 
less of the shouts and mirth about her, her serious face in 
strange contrast to the general joy. 

But a stoppage in the crowd in front of her compelling 
her to slacken her pace, she had time for thought. She 
remembers her father, who will be alarmed by her delay ; 
she thinks of Charney accusing his messenger of neglect. 
Her hand moves to her bosom as if the petition might 
have, dropped from its hiding place. Then her father 
appears before her again and a tear dims her eye, but her 
sad thoughts are interrupted by loud shouts of joy. 

A vast space is formed about her, two hands seize hers 
on either side, and in spite of her resistance, her fatigue, 
and her melancholy mood, she is forced to figure in a 
lively dance which whirls along the road, enlisting lads 
and lasses as they pass. 

This was not the least painful incident of her journey. 
But she kept up her courage, for she had almost reached 
the goal. 

Freed from this strange encounter, she finally comes in 
sight of the plain ; and her eye, after roaming over the 
noble army arrayed on the field of Marengo, lights up 
when it rests on the imperial throne. 


PIC C 10 LA. 


101 


All her strength, loyalty, and enthusiasm revive ! But 
how is she to reach the throne through these myriads of 
men and horses? 

The foremost ranks of the crowd had encroached so 
rapidly on the plain that they threatened to invade the 
battlefield. A body of horsemen rode forward, and bran- 
dishing their swords, their chargers plunging and rearing, 
they drove the mob back within bounds. 

Teresa, pale, trembling, but instinctively directing her 
course towards the throne, was taken off her feet, borne 
away by the rush. She closed her eyes in terror, like a 
child who imagines the danger is over when he ceases to 
see it, clung to a tree, and remained there motionless. 

So rapid was the retreat of the people before the advance 
of the troops, that when she raised her head and looked 
about, she found herself alone in a thicket of trees, among 
which trickled a tiny stream. Gazing in the opposite direc- 
tion, she saw through the foliage, not three hundred paces 
away, the throne upon which sat Josephine and Napoleon. 

Teresa takes courage ; the moment is at hand. She 
parts the branches to step forth ; but as she does so, with 
a start of confusion and shame she thinks of her untidy 
appearance. Her hair is unbraided and hangs about her 
shoulders, her hands and face are covered with dust and 
dirt. To appear thus before the rulers of France and 
Italy would be to court a refusal ! 

She retreats into the thicket once more, stoops to the 
brook, unties her broad-brimmed straw hat, shakes out 
her dark hair, braids it, smooths her neck kerchief, then 
washes face and hands in the stream, and utters a fervent 
prayer to Heaven for her father and for Charney. 


102 


PIC CIO LA . 


As she again watches for an opportune moment for her 
passage, loud reports are heard on every hand. The 
ground seems to shake, the birds fly up from the trees, 
uttering shrill cries, and take refuge in the woods of Vol- 
pedo and the shades of Voghera. 

The battle has begun. 

Teresa, deafened by the roar of the cannon, terrified 
by the din, stood stunned, her eyes riveted on the throne, 
now visible and now hidden by a moving screen of bayo- 
nets and lances. 

After a space, when every thought save that of instinc- 
tive horror seemed to leave her, her energy returned. 
She examined more calmly the obstacles in her path and 
did not consider them insuperable. 

Two columns of infantry were engaged in a brisk ex- 
change of shots just beyond the trees which sheltered her. 
She hoped to make a way for herself under cover of the 
smoke, but was still hesitating when a troop of thirsty 
hussars invaded her refuge. 

She hesitated no longer ; her courage strengthened by 
a feeling of modesty, she sprang between the two columns 
of infantry, and as the smoke at that moment cleared 
away, the soldiers uttered shouts of surprise at seeing in 
the midst a white petticoat, a woman’s hat, a pretty, 
graceful girl, who kept on her way in spite of their warn- 
ing cries. 

A squadron of cuirassiers was hurrying to support one 
of the regiments. The captain very nearly knocked Teresa 
down ; but grasping her in his arms just in time, he 
raised her from the ground, and swearing and cursing, but 
never stopping to ask by what chance a girl happened to 


PICCIOLA. 


103 


be there in the thick of the fray, he ordered two soldiers 
to take her to the women’s tent. 

She was put on the crupper behind a trooper, and in this 
way she was conducted to the spot where the ladies of the 
Empress Josephine, with a few aides-de-camp and the 
Italian deputies were stationed. 

Having reached the goal at last, Teresa could not sub- 
mit to failure now. She had overcome too many difficul- 
ties to yield to the final one ; consequently, when, on her 
demand to speak with the Emperor, she was told that he 
was riding hither and thither on the field at the head of 
his troops, she exclaimed resolutely : "Then I must see 
the Empress ! ” but the one was no easier than the other. 
To put an end to her importunity the courtiers strove to 
intimidate her, but they failed in their attempt. She was 
then told that she must await the end of the evolutions ; 
she refused and tried to reach the throne. She was held 
back ; she struggled and spoke in tones of such excite- 
ment that the attention of Josephine herself was drawn 
to her. 


CHAPTER III. 


Josephine had no sooner issued her orders than the 
group parted, and Teresa appeared imploring, held back 
and still struggling to be free. 

At a friendly sign from the Empress, all made way for 
the captive, who, still breathless and disordered by her 
struggle, sank at the foot of the throne, and hastily draw- 
ing a handkerchief from her bosom, cried : 

" Madam ! Madam ! A poor prisoner ! ” 

Josephine did not at first understand the meaning of 
this handkerchief. 

"What is it?” she asked. "Have you a petition to 
offer me? ” 

" This is it, Madam ; this is it ! This is a poor prisoner’s 
petition.” 

And tears ran down the poor girl’s cheeks, while a 
smile of hope lit up her face. The Empress smiled in 
return, extended one hand, ordered her to rise, and bend- 
ing towards her with a look of benevolence : 

"Come, come, child, recover yourself. Are you so 
much interested in this poor prisoner?” 

Teresa blushed and hung her head. 

"I never spoke to him,” she replied; "but he is so 
unfortunate! Read this, Madam.” 

Josephine unfolded the handkerchief, was moved at the 
thought of all the misery and privations attested by this 
bit of cambric, laboriously written over with a makeshift 
for ink ; then, pausing at the opening phrase : 

104 


PICCIOLA. 


105 


"But it is addressed to the Emperor ! ” 

"No matter! Are not you his wife? Read, read, 
Madam ; for Heaven’s sake, read ! There is no time to 
be lost ! ” 

The battle had reached its height. The Hungarians, 
although mowed down by Marmont’s artillery, had resumed 
their dread onslaught. Zach and Desaix were face to 
face, and their encounter must result in the salvation or 
the destruction of the army. 

Cannon roared on every hand ; the battlefield was in 
a blaze ; the shouts of the soldiers, mingled with the trum- 
pet blasts of war, stirred the air like a whirlwind. 

The Empress read : 


" Sire, — 

"Two paving stones the less in my prison yard will 
not shake the foundations of your Empire, and such is the 
only favor which I implore Your Majesty to grant me. It 
* is not for myself that I entreat your protection ; but, 
in this walled desert wherein I expiate my wrongs against 
you, one creature alone has solaced my grief, one being 
alone has lent charm to my life. ’T is a plant, Sire, a flower 
which unexpectedly sprang up between the stones of the 
yard, where I am at times allowed to breathe the air and 
look upon the sky. Ah ! do not accuse me of delirium 
and folly ! That flower was the object of such sweet and 
comforting study ! Fixed upon it, my eyes were opened 
to the truth ; to it I owe my reason, my rest, perhaps my 
life ! I love it as you love glory ! 

" As I write, my poor plant is perishing for lack of space 
and earth ; it is dying and I cannot rescue it, and the 


106 


PICCIOLA. 


commander of Fenestrella refers my petition to the Gov- 
ernor of Turin, and ere they reach a decision, my plant 
will have perished ! To you, Sire, I must therefore turn ; 
to you who with a single word can do all, even save my 
flower ! Order the removal of those two stones which 
weigh upon my heart as heavily as upon my plant; save 
it from destruction, save me from despair! Give the 
order ! it is the life of my plant that I implore ! I entreat 
you to grant it ; nay, I beg you on my bended knees, and 
I swear it ; the favor shall redound to your credit in my 
heart. 

" Why should it die ? It has, I own it, softened the blow 
which your mighty hand saw fit to deal me ; but it has 
also humbled my pride, and it now brings me suppliant 
to your feet. Look down upon us from your double 
throne. Can you understand the bonds that unite a man 
and a plant in that solitude which deprives a captive of all 
but a vegetable existence ? No, you know nothing of this, 
Sire, and may your star guard you from ever knowing 
what captivity can do to the strongest and proudest 
spirit ! I do not complain of mine ; I can bear it meekly; 
prolong it ; let it last as long as does my life ; but have 
pity on my plant ! 

"Remember, Sire, that the favor I implore Your Majesty 
to grant must be granted at once, this very day! You 
can hold the sword suspended over the head of the crimi- 
nal, and then raise it to pardon him ; but nature obeys 
other laws than the justice of man; two days more, and 
perhaps even the Emperor Napoleon can do nothing for 
the flower of the prisoner of Fenestrella. 


Charney.” 


PICCIOLA. 


107 


There was a sudden burst of artillery ; thick smoke 
covered the field with a dark, yet lurid cloud; then the 
fires died away, and it seemed as if a hand outstretched 
from above had suddenly removed the curtain which con- 
cealed the combatants. 

What a magnificent spectacle in the full blaze of the 
sun ! The brilliant charge which cost Desaix his life was 
made. Zach and his Hungarians, attacked on their front 
by Bondet, on their left flank by Kellermann and his 
cavalry, reeled back in confusion, and the dauntless consul 
resumed the offensive, overthrew the Imperial troops at 
every point, and forced Melas to beat a retreat. 

This sudden change of position, these great military 
movements, this human ebb and flow obedient to the voice 
of the chief, alone, motionless, in the midst of the apparent 
disorder, was well fitted to stir the coldest imagination ; 
cheers and shouts rose from the spectators stationed about 
the throne, and this sound, in contrast to the other sounds 
which rang in her ears, at last roused the Empress from 
her deep revery. 

For the future Queen of Italy had seen nothing of the 
brilliant manoeuvres, the impressive pictures passing before 
her; her eyes were still riveted on the strange petition in 
her hand. 

Her first impulse was to encourage the young girl who 
stood before her. 

Teresa, rejoicing in the prospect of success held out by 
that kindly smile, gratefully and tearfully kissed the frail 
yet powerful hand which bore Napoleon’s marriage ring, 
and withdrew to the women’s tent. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Every word of the petition had roused the sympathy of 
the Empress-Queen, for Josephine, too, could worship a 
flower ; they were her passion, and she had more than 
once forgotten the splendor and the cares of state while 
she watched an opening bud or studied the structure of a 
blossom in the conservatories at Malmaison . 1 

There she had often taken more pleasure in the purple 
of a cactus than in that of her imperial mantle, and the 
scent of her magnolias was sweeter to her senses than the 
venomous flatteries of her courtiers. There she loved to 
reign supreme, there she gathered under one sceptre a 
thousand vegetable tribes from all the corners of the 
earth. She knew them, classified them, enrolled them 
in order and according to their race. 

Like Napoleon, she respected the laws and customs of 
conquered nations. Plants from all nations found their 
native climate and soil in her hothouses. It was a world 
in miniature. In a limited space were rocks and plains, 
forest and sand, lakes, cascades, and pebbly beaches; one 
might pass from the heat of the tropics to the cool breezes 
of the most temperate zones. 

When Josephine held an inspection, sweet memories 
were called up by the sight of certain flowers. The 
hortensia had lately borrowed the name of her daughter ; 
thoughts of glory came to her too ; for after Bonaparte’s 

1 Josephine’s favorite residence on the banks of the river Seine. She 
died there in 1814. 


108 


PTCCIOLA. 


109 


triumphs she had claimed her share of the booty, and 
dreams of Italy and Egypt seemed to rise before her. 
The Alpine soldanel, 1 the Parma violet, the Pheasant’s 
eye 2 from Castiglione, the Lodi pink, the willow from the 
Orient, the Malta Cross, 3 the lily of the Nile, 4 the Syrian 
hibiscus, 5 the rose of Damietta, these were her conquests ! 
And of these, at least the greater part still belong to 
France ! 

Among all her riches, she had still her favorite flower, 
the flower of her adoption, the lovely jasmine from 
Martinique, whose seeds, gathered by her, planted by 
her, nursed by her, remind her of home, childhood, 
girlhood, her parents, and her first love for her first 
husband ! 6 

Oh ! how well she understood the unhappy man’s ter- 
rors for his plant ! How he must love it ! He has but 
a single one ! 

And why should she not feel for the poor prisoner’s 
fate ? The widow of Beauharnais did not always dwell 
in a palace. She has not forgotten her days of captivity. 
And then this Charney, Josephine knew him so calm, so 
proud, so indifferent to worldly pleasures, such a scoffer 
at the sweetest human affections ! What a change has 
come over him ! What can have bowed that haughty 
spirit ? He who refused to bow even before God now lies 
prostrate, imploring pity for a plant ! Oh ! it shall be 
preserved to him ! 


1 Convolvulus soldanel la. 2 Adonis autumnalis. 

3 Lychnis Chalcedonica. 4 Calla JEthiopica. 5 Hibiscus Syriacus. 

6 Viscount de Beauharnais, whom she married at the early age of fif- 

teen, and whose widow she was when she married Bonaparte. 


110 


PICCIOLA. 


In this state of mind the final manoeuvres of the troops, 
all the vain show of battle, served only to awaken irrita- 
tion and impatience in her soul ; for she dreaded to lose 
one of those moments so necessary for the existence of 
the captive’s flower. 

Accordingly, when Napoleon, surrounded by his gen- 
erals, rejoined her, expecting her congratulations and 
still thrilled by those warlike toils which delighted him, 
she exclaimed, with sparkling eye and eager voice, as if a 
fresh victory were at stake, and it were now her turn to 
take the command Sire, an order for the commander of 
Fenestrella ! At once, an express ! ” 

And she offered him the handkerchief, outspread in 
both hands, that he might read it without delay. 

Napoleon, measuring her from head to foot, with a 
glance of displeasure, turned his back and passed on to 
distribute crosses of the Legion of Honor 1 to the veterans 
who fought five years before on the self-same field. The 
chief magistrates of the Cisalpine 2 Republic were also 
decorated by him. With Josephine he laid the first stone 
of a monument in memory of the Battle of Marengo, after 
which Emperor, Empress, ambassadors, magistrates, civil- 
ians, and soldiers returned to Alexandria. 

And still Picciola’s fate was not decided ! 

1 An order of knighthood established by Bonaparte while First Consul, 
May 19, 1804, to reward military and civil service. 

2 Founded by Bonaparte in 1797, it contained most of the states of 
Northern Italy, and lasted till 1805, when it offered Napoleon the title 
of King of Italy. 


CHAPTER V. 


That evening, after the state dinner, Napoleon and 
Josephine were in one of the apartments prepared for 
them in the town hall of Alexandria, the one dictating 
letters to a secretary, striding up and down, rubbing his 
hands with a satisfied look ; the other before a long 
mirror, admiring with frank coquetry her elegant dress 
and her costly ornaments. 

When the secretary took his leave, Napoleon sat down, 
put both elbows on the table covered with red velvet, 
fringed with gold, leaned his head on his hands, and 
seemed lost in pleasant musings. 

Josephine soon wearied of silence. He had already 
slighted her once in regard to the petition from Fenes- 
trella, and realizing that her request had been ill-timed, 
she determined to choose a more favorable moment. 

She thought that it had now come, and, seating herself 
at the opposite side of the table, she leaned upon it, in 
imitation of her husband, affecting a similar abstraction, 
and soon both looked up and smiled. 

"What are you thinking about?” asked Josephine 
caressingly. 

"I was thinking,” he replied, "that a diadem becomes 
you well, and that it would be a pity had I omitted to add 
one to your casket.” 

Josephine’s smile slowly faded. Napoleon’s smile be- 
came more pronounced, for he loved to combat the terrors 
which she could not but feel when she thought of the 


112 


PICCIOLA. 


height to which they had attained. It was not for herself 
she trembled, noble woman ! 

"Would you not rather have me an emperor than a 
general?” he added. 

"To be sure, for an emperor may grant favors and I 
have one to beg.” 

It was now the husband’s turn to frown and that of the 
wife to smile. He feared lest Josephine’s influence should 
lead him into dangerous weaknesses. 

"Again ! Josephine, you promised never again to inter- 
fere with the course of justice ! Do you think that the 
power to pardon is only ours that we may gratify the 
caprices of our heart ? ” 

"Sire,” returned Josephine, restraining a burst of 
laughter, " I am sure you will grant the favor which I 
beg of Your Majesty.” 

" I doubt it ! ” 

" And I do not. First and foremost, I request the 
removal of two . . . oppressors ! Yes, Sire, let them be 
dismissed ! Let them be torn from their places if need 
be ! ” 

So saying, she pressed her handkerchief to her lips ; for 
as she saw Napoleon’s look of amazement she could no 
longer control her mirth. 

" What ! do you spur me on to punishment, you, 
Josephine? and to whom do you refer?” 

"To two paving stones, Sire, which are in the way in a 
courtyard.” 

And the laughter, with such difficulty restrained, burst 
forth at last. He rose, and folding his arms hastily 
behind him, stared at her with suspicion and surprise. 


PICC/OLA. 


113 


"What! what is the meaning of this? Two paving 
stones ! are you joking ? ” 

"No!” said she; and rising in her turn, coming close 
to him, and leaning with clasped hands on his shoulder, 
with her graceful Creole ease : " a precious life hangs on 
those two stones. Heed me well, Sire, for it requires all 
your good-will to understand me.” 

She then told him the story of the petition and all she 
had learned from Teresa concerning the prisoner, without 
giving his name, however; and she told him of the girl’s 
devotion ; then turning to the prisoner and his flower, and 
to the love he bore it, words flowed from her lips, sweet, 
tender, caressing, full of that charm and eloquence so 
natural to her. 

As he listened the Emperor smiled, and as he smiled 
he admired his wife. 


CHAPTER VI. 


Charney counted the hours, the minutes, the seconds. 
He felt as if the tiniest divisions of time were heaped one 
upon the other to crush his flower and break it. Two 
days had passed; no news yet ; even the old man, anxious 
and alarmed in turn, could not explain this silence, this 
delay; he suggested obstacles, he answered for the loyalty 
and zeal of the messenger (but did not mention his 
daughter), and strove to revive in his comrade’s heart 
the hope which was fading from his own. 

The third day passed, and yet his daughter did not 
come. 

Throughout the fourth day, Girhardi did not appear at 
his window. Charney did not see him ; but had he lent 
an attentive ear, he might have heard the poor father’s 
mingled sobs and prayers. 

The plant advanced steadily in its process of dissolution, 
and Charney, inconsolable, watched Picciola’s last agony. 
He had double cause for depression ; he must lose the joy 
of his life, the object of his care, and he had humbled 
himself to no purpose ! 

As if all had conspired against him, Ludovic, once so 
open and so free, now avoided speaking to him. Silent 
and sullen, he came and went, smoking his pipe, scarcely 
looking at him, and seeming to have a grudge against him 
for his misfortune. 

When dinner time came, Ludovic found Charney lost in 
sad musings over his plant. He carefully avoided address- 

114 


PICCIOLA. 


115 


ing him cheerfully as of yore, crossing the yard rapidly, 
pretending to think that Charney was in his cell. But all 
at once their eyes met, and Ludovic paused, amazed at 
the changed aspect of the prisoner. 

Longing and waiting had furrowed his brow ; his color- 
less lips, his thin cheeks gave him an air of depression, 
made more striking by his disordered hair and beard. In 
spite of himself, Ludovic was painfully startled, but, recall- 
ing his resolves no doubt, he turned his eyes from the 
man to the plant, winked ironically, shrugged his shouh 
ders, whistled a tune, and was about to retire, when a sad 
but expressive voice asked : " What have I done to you, 
Ludovic ? ” 

"To me? ... to me? . . . Nothing,” replied the 
gaoler, embarrassed by this reproachful tone and more 
moved than he was willing to show. 

"Then,” rejoined the Count, moving towards him, and 
quickly grasping his hand, " let us save her ! It is not too 
late, and I have found out a way. Yes ! the commandant 
cannot be alarmed. He need never know it. Get me 
some earth, an empty box ; ... we will take up the stones, 
but only for an instant. . . . Who will ever know ? We 
can transplant it.” 

" Pooh ! pooh ! pooh ! ” said Ludovic, hastily withdraw- 
ing his hand ; " the devil take the flower ! She has injured 
us all quite enough, beginning with you, who look as if 
you would fall ill again. Turn her into herb tea; that is 
all she is good for ! ” 

Charney gave him a look of scorn and anger. 

"If she did no one but you a mischief,” continued 
Ludovic, " that ’s your own business ; it ’s all very well ! 


116 


PICCIOLA. 


but that poor man whom you have robbed of his daughter, 

. . . he is not to see her again, and he owes it to you ! ” 

" His daughter ! What do you mean ? ” . . . cried the 
Count. 

"Yes, that ’s it, what do I mean ? ” resumed the gaoler, 
putting down his basket of provisions, folding his arms, 
and assuming the attitude of a man about to utter a sharp 
rebuke. "You whip the horses and you expect the car- 
riage to stand still ! You strike a blow and wonder at the 
wound! Trondedious ! O che frascheria ! 1 You chose 
to write to the Emperor, and you did write to him ; so 
far so good. It was against the commandant’s orders ; he 
will punish you as he sees fit, that ’s but fair. But you 
wanted a messenger to carry your letter, as you could not 
carry it yourself. That messenger was the ' giovanna.' ” 2 
"What! that young girl. . . . Was it she?” 

" Now pretend to be astonished, do ! Did you suppose 
your correspondence with the Emperor would go by tele- 
graph ? The government has other uses for that. . . . 
The fact is that the commandant has found out everything. 
... I don’t know how ; . . . through the guide, no doubt ; 
for the ' giovarina ’ could not wander over the roads alone. 
Now the door of the prison is closed against her. She 
and her father are parted. And whose fault is it ? ” 
Charney hid his face in his hands. 

" Miserable old man ! ” he exclaimed ; " his only consola- 
tion ! . . . And does he know it ? ” 

"He has known everything since yesterday. You may 
fancy how he feels towards you. But your dinner is get- 
ting cold.” 


What nonsense ! 


Young woman. 


PICCIOLA. 


117 


And he took up the basket and carried it into the pris- 
oner’s cell. 

The Count sank upon his bench. For a moment he felt 
like being done with Picciola at once, and destroying her 
with his own hand ; but his heart failed him. Besides, a 
ray of hope still shone faintly before him. That poor girl 
who so generously sacrificed herself for him, and whose 
eagerness to help a poor wretch has been so cruelly pun- 
ished, has returned ; perhaps she succeeded in reaching 
the Emperor after all. Yes, that must be it! That has 
enraged the commandant ! But if he holds the order for 
Picciola’s delivery, why does he delay ? He must needs 
obey, if the Emperor commands ! " Oh, bless you, noble 

girl ! poor girl, parted from your father ! . . . for my 
sake ! Oh ! I would give half my life for you, ... for 
your pleasure. I would give it willingly, . . . only to 
throw the door of this prison open to you ! ” 


CHAPTER VII. 


A half hour had scarcely passed, when two officers 
wearing sashes of the national colors, red, white, and blue, 
appeared, followed by the commander of Fenestrella, and 
requested Charney to return to his cell. 

There, the commandant was first to speak. 

He was a stout man with big, bald head and thick, 
gray moustaches. A scar starting at the left eyebrow cut 
his face in halves and stopped at the upper lip, which it 
slightly impaired. A long, blue coat with full skirts, 
buttoned from top to bottom, top-boots drawn over his 
trousers, a sprinkling of powder on his hair, which was 
braided on either side in the old-fashioned way, and spurs 
to his boots (no doubt as a mark of distinction, for owing 
to rheumatism as well as to the onerous duties of his posi- 
tion, he was actually the greatest prisoner in the fortress), 
— such was the outward appearance of this personage, 
whose only weapon was a cane. 

Having the custody of political prisoners, most of whom 
were of noble family, he prided himself on his good breed- 
ing, in spite of his frequent bursts of temper, and on his 
elegant diction, in spite of certain unfortunate peculiar- 
ities of pronunciation. He carried himself erect, had 
a loud, emphatic voice, flourished his arm when salut- 
ing, and scratched his head while he talked. Thus 
fashioned, Colonel Morand, in command at Fenestrella, 
might still have passed for what is called a fine figure 
of a soldier. 

1 18 


PICCIOLA. 


119 


From the courteous tone which he at first assumed, and 
the official air of his two companions, Charney thought 
that they had brought him Picciola’s pardon. 

The colonel asked him to say whether he had ever acted 
unhandsomely towards him, in the exercise of his duty, 
either by lack of care or by abuse of power. 

This preface sounded well. Charney protested all that 
he could in his favor. 

" You know, sir, that when you were ill, every attention 
was lavished upon you ; if you did not choose to follow 
the prescriptions of the doctors, the fault was neither theirs 
nor mine. I thought that fresh air and exercise might 
hasten your recovery, and you were allowed almost entire 
liberty to come and go in your courtyard.” 

Charney bowed as if to thank him ; but he was devoured 
by impatience. 

"And yet, sir,” resumed the colonel in the tone of a 
man whose delicacy has been wounded, his attentions 
ignored, "you have broken the ordinary rules of the 
establishment, with which you must have been familiar ; 
you have come near compromising me with the Governor 
of Piedmont, General Menou, and even with the Emperor, 
by forwarding a petition to His Majesty.” 

"Forwarding! then he has received it?” interrupted 
Charney. 

" Yes, sir.” 

" Well ? ” 

And he quivered with impatience. 

"Well,” replied the commandant, "for so doing you will 
be transferred to one of the cells in the old bastion, where 
you will remain in close confinement for a month.” 


120 


PICCIOLA. 


"But tell me,” cried Charney, still trying to struggle 
against the cruel reality which robbed him of his last 
illusions, "what did the Emperor say?” 

"The Emperor cannot attend to such nonsense!” was 
the contemptuous reply. 

Charney sank upon the only chair with which his cell 
was provided and paid little heed to what followed. 

"That is not all. Your means of communication 
known, your relations with the outside discovered, it is 
natural to suppose that your correspondence was carried 
farther. Have you written to any one besides His 
Majesty ? ” 

Charney made no answer. 

"A careful search has been ordered,” added the colonel 
in a harsher tone, " and these gentlemen, appointed by the 
Governor of Turin, will proceed to make it in your pres- 
ence, as the law directs. Before carrying out this order, 
have you anything to say ? Confession will do much to 
help your cause.” 

The same silence on the prisoners part. 

The colonel frowned, and turning to his companions he 
said : 

" Proceed ! ” 

The two at once began to search every nook and corner 
from the chimney and the mattress to the inner lining of 
the Count’s clothes. 

Meantime the colonel, pacing up and down the narrow 
cell, tapped the flagstones with his cane, to see if they 
contained a secret hiding place for important papers, or 
even the preparations for flight, which would not be diffi- 
cult, as Fenestrella was anything but a secure prison. 


PICCIOLA. 


121 


Since 1796 it had been a partial ruin, and but a few 
soldiers were left to guard its outer walls. 

After a prolonged search, nothing suspicious was found 
but a small glass bottle filled with blackish liquid, no doubt 
the prisoner’s ink. 

When asked as to how he got this ink, he turned his 
chair to the window and began to drum on the panes, 
without replying to the question. 

Only the dressing case remained to be examined. He 
was asked for the key. 

He flung it on the floor. 

Colonel Morand choked with indignation. His face 
crimson, his eyes flashing, he strode up and down, button- 
ing and unbuttoning his coat with trembling hands, as if 
to restrain his fury. 

Suddenly, with one accord, the two police spies occupied 
in searching the dressing case, one holding it, the other 
fumbling over it, ran to the window for more light and 
rapturously shouted : 

" We have it ! We have it ! ” 

Pulling from a secret drawer a number of handkerchiefs, 
blackened all over with fine, close characters, they imagine 
that they have hit upon the proofs of a vast conspiracy. 

Seeing his precious records profaned, Charney springs 
up, puts forth his hand to grasp them, opens his lips, . . . 
then, recovering his composure, he sits down again with- 
out a word. 

But his first impulse to rescue, was enough to lead the 
commandant to attach great value to the capture. 

By his order the handkerchiefs are at once tied up and 
sealed ; even the bottle and the toothpick pen are confis- 


122 


PICCIOLA. 


cated. A report is drawn up. Charney, being asked to 
sign it in proof that it is correct, refuses by a shake of his 
head. 

This refusal is set down, and he is commanded to go at 
once to the cell in the old bastion. 

Oh ! how sad, how vague, and how confused were his 
thoughts ! His only feeling was one of grief and pain. 
He had not even a smile of contempt to bestow on the 
triumph of those men, so proud to bear off his observa- 
tions on his plant, as legal evidence, as proof of a plot ! 
He was forever parted from his memories ! The lover 
robbed of the letters and portrait of an adored ladylove 
whom he is never again to see, can alone understand the 
prisoner’s agony. To save Picciola he has imperilled his 
honor and his pride ; he has broken an old man’s heart 
and ruined a young girl’s life ; and of all which reconciled 
him to life nothing is left him, not even the lines which 
he had written and which summed up his blest studies. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Josephine’s intercession was not so powerful as it prom- 
ised to be. After her gentle plea in favor of the prisoner 
and his plant, when she placed the handkerchief with its 
petition in Napoleon’s hands, he recalled the strange lack 
of attention, so offensive to his pride, which the Empress 
had shown that morning during the warlike sport at Ma- 
rengo, and Charney’s signature added to the disagreeable 
impression. 

" Has the fellow gone mad?” he said, "and what trick 
is he trying to play on me? A Jacobin a botanist ? 1 I 
think I still hear Marat 2 enlarge upon the beauties of rural 
scenery, or see Couthon 3 appear at the Convention with a 
rose in his buttonhole ! ” 

Josephine would have objected to the title of Jacobin, 
so lightly applied to the noble Count, but just then a 
chamberlain entered and informed the Emperor that gen- 
erals, ambassadors, and Italian deputies were waiting for 
him in the drawing-room. He at once joined them and 
availed himself of Charney’s name and petition to make a 
vigorous assault upon philosophers and Jacobins, whom he 
vowed he would bring to unconditional terms. Quick to 

1 Jacobin, a member of the club of the Friends of the Constitution, who 
in 1789 held meetings in a Dominican Convent in the Rue St. Jacques, 
Paris. 

2 Famous Terrorist, editor of the " Friend of the People ,” killed by 
Charlotte Corday, 1793. 

3 Another Terrorist, guillotined 1794, after the fall of his friend and 
leader, Robespierre. 


123 


124 


PIC C /OLA. 


profit by circumstances, he raised his voice resolutely and 
threateningly, not that he was as excited as he pretended 
to be, but he wished his words to be heard and repeated, 
especially by the Prussian ambassador. 

This was his act of divorce from the cause of the Revo- 
lution. 

Josephine, alarmed for a moment by the storm that she 
had caused, soon recovered from her fears, and whispered 
half mockingly in Napoleon’s ear: " Oh, Sire, why such 
a tempest? There is no question of Jacobins here or 
of revolutionists, but only of a poor flower which never 
conspired against any one.” 

The Emperor shrugged his shoulders. 

"Do they think to deceive me with such nonsense?” 
he exclaimed. " This Charney is a dangerous fellow and 
no fool! The flower is a mere pretext, . . . the object 
to take up the paving stones. He is preparing to escape ! 
Look out for him, Menou. And how does it happen that 
the fellow writes to me without sending his petition 
through the colonel’s hands ? Is this the discipline in 
your state prisons ? ” 

The Empress made another effort to defend her favorite. 

" Enough, madam ! ” said the master. 

Menou, reproved by the Emperor, was not chary of 
blame with the colonel in command at Fenestrella ; and 
the latter, in his turn, was quick to avenge himself on the 
prisoners to whom he owed so sharp a reprimand. 

Girhardi’s cell was searched, but nothing suspicious was 
found. His daughter, however, was forbidden to revisit 
her father. 

As for the Count, he was destined to undergo even 


PICCIOLA. 


125 


more painful emotions than those caused by the seizure 
of his manuscripts. 

When he stepped into the courtyard on his way to his 
new cell, in the train of the colonel and his acolytes, the 
coloners rage seemed to be redoubled by the sight of the 
frail scaffolding about the plant, either because he had not 
noticed it before or because he wished to punish Charney 
for his obstinate silence. 

" What is all that ? ” he said to Ludovic, who came at his 
call. " Is this the way you look out for your prisoners ?” 

"That, colonel,” the gaoler replied with a grunt of 
hesitation, taking his pipe from his mouth and lifting his 
hand to his cap in salute ; " that ’s the plant I told you 
about ; . . . the one that is so good for gout and such-like 
troubles.” 

"The devil ! ” said the colonel, "if these gentlemen are 
allowed to have their way, the cells and courtyards of the 
citadel will be turned into gardens, menageries, and wine 
shops ! Come ! root up that weed and all that rubbish 
about it ! ” 

Ludovic looked at the plant, at Charney, and at the 
colonel ; he tried to utter a few words of excuse. 

"Hold your tongue!” cried the colonel, "and do as I 
bid you ! ” 

Ludovic said no more. He again took his pipe from 
his mouth, put it out, emptied it, laid it on a ledge, and 
made ready to obey his orders. He took off his jacket 
and his cap and rubbed his hands to work up his courage. 
All at once, as if the colonel’s rage were contagious, he 
tore up the matting, plucked it apart, and flung it about 
the yard in a sort of fury. Next came the stakes ; he 


126 


PICCIOLA. 


broke them over his knee and hurled them away. His 
old love for Picciola seemed changed to hate ; he seemed 
avenging himself for some fancied wrong. 

Charney stood rooted to the spot, his eyes eagerly 
riveted on his plant, as if his gaze could still protect her. 

The day had been cool, the sky overcast ; the plant had 
revived during the day, and from the midst of the withered 
branches sprang tiny green shoots. It was as if Picciola 
were gathering strength to die ! 

What ! Picciola, his Picciola ! His real world and his 
ideal world, the pivot of his existence, must perish ! What 
would fill his sad leisure now ? What would fill his empty 
heart ? No more plans, no more studies, no more sweet 
dreams, no experiments to note down, nothing to love ! 
Oh ! how narrow his prison walls would be ! How oppress- 
ive the air ! It would be but a tomb ! Picciola’s tomb ! 

Just then he saw a shadow at the little grated window. 
It was the old man ! 

"Ah ! ” he thought, " I have robbed him of his only joy, 
I have parted him from his daughter ! He has come to 
enjoy my anguish, to curse me, no doubt ! I cannot 
blame him, for what is my misery in comparison with 
his despair?” 

He dared not raise his eyes to implore pardon of the 
only man whose esteem he cared to retain ; he feared to 
read on that noble face signs of merited reproach or scorn ; 
but when their eyes met, the look of tender pity addressed 
to him by the poor father, forgetting his own sorrows in 
those of his companion in misfortune, stirred him to the 
soul, and two tears, the only tears he ever shed, stole from 
his eyes. 


PIC CIO LA. 


127 


Those tears were sweet ; but a remnant of pride led 
him to wipe them away hastily. He would not be sus- 
pected of weakness by those about him. 

Of all the witnesses to this scene, the two police spies 
alone seemed not to understand the drama enacted before 
them. They stared by turns at the prisoner, the old man, 
the colonel, and the gaoler, amazed at the emotion stamped 
upon their features, and wondering if some precious treas- 
ure lay buried beneath so well barricaded a flower. 

But the fatal work went on. Urged by the colonel, 
Ludovic tried to remove the supports of the rustic seat, 
but they resisted his efforts. 

" An axe, take an axe ! ” cried the colonel. 

Ludovic took one ; it fell from his hand. 

" Confound you, be done with it ! ” said the colonel. 

At the first blow, the bench yielded ; at the third, it 
was in fragments. Then Ludovic stooped to the plant, 
left standing alone amidst the wreck. 

The Count was pale and hollow-eyed ; sweat poured 
from his brow. 

" Sir, sir ! Why kill it ? It will soon die in any case,” 
he cried at last, humbled once more to play the suppliant. 

The colonel looked at him, smiled satirically, and in his 
turn made no reply. 

"Very well!” exclaimed Charney ; "I will do it ! I 
will tear it up with my own hand ! ” 

" I forbid you ! ” said the colonel in his gruff voice ; 
and he stretched his cane like a barrier between Charney 
and his companion. Then, at his imperative sign, Ludovic 
grasped Picciola in both hands to uproot her from the 
earth. 


128 


P/CCIOLA. 


Charney, dismayed, utterly crushed, again riveted his 
eyes upon her. 

Close to the ground where the sap still ran, a tiny 
flower had bloomed, bright and many-hued. The other 
blossoms already hung dejected on their withered stalks. 
This one alone still lived ; it alone was not crushed and 
stifled by the gaoler’s big, rough hands. It turned 
towards Charney. He fancied he inhaled its perfume, 
and his eyes wet with tears, he saw it glitter, disappear, 
and again appear. 

Man and plant exchanged a last look of farewell. 

If at this moment when so many interests and emotions 
centered about a frail plant, strangers had appeared sud- 
denly in the prison yard, on beholding the scene before 
them, those officers decked in tricolored scarfs, the colonel 
pronouncing his merciless decree, would they not have 
thought they saw some secret, bloody execution, where 
Ludovic played the hangman’s part, and Charney that of 
the criminal who has just heard his sentence ? Such stran- 
gers are at hand ! They are here ! 

One is an aide-de-camp of General Menou ; the other a 
page of the Empress. The dust which covers them shows 
that they have made good speed. And it was high time ! 

At the sound of their footsteps, Ludovic released Picci- 
ola, raised his head, and Charney and he looked into each 
other’s eyes. Both of them were as pale as ashes ! 

The aide-de-camp handed Colonel Morand an order from 
the Governor of Turin ; the colonel read it, hesitated, 
walked up and down, compared the message just received 
with that received the night before ; then, raising his eye- 
brows repeatedly in token of his great surprise, he affects 


PICCIOLA. 


129 


a semi-courteous air, approaches Charney, and graciously 
hands him the general’s letter. 

The prisoner read aloud : 

" His Majesty the Emperor and King commands me 
to inform you that he grants Mr. Charney’s application, 
relating to the plant which grows between the paving 
stones of his prison. Those which interfere with it may 
be removed. I desire you to see that this order is carried 
out, and to arrange with Mr. Charney on this head.” 

" Long live the Emperor ! ” shouts Ludovic. 

" Long live the Emperor ! ” murmurs another voice, 
which seems to issue from the wall. 

While Charney read, the colonel leaned on his cane, as 
if to keep himself in countenance ; the two men with the 
scarfs, still unable to understand the meaning of all this, 
seemed mystified; the aide-de-camp and the page wondered 
why they had been sent there in such hot haste. Finally 
the page, turning to Charney, said : 

" There is a postscript from the Empress.” 

And Charney read upon the margin : 

" I recommend Mr. Charney to the special consideration 
of Colonel Morand. I shall be particularly grateful to the 
colonel for all that he may do to alleviate the condition of 

his prisoner. [Signed] Josephine.” 

" Long live the Empress ! ” cried Ludovic. 

Charney kissed the signature and for some moments 
held the message before his eyes. 


BOOK THIRD. 


CHAPTER I. 

The commandant of Fenestrella now renewed his atten- 
tions to the favorite of Her Majesty the Empress and 
Queen. Not only Charney was not removed to the 
bastion cell, but he was allowed to restore the scaffold- 
ings and mattings, more needful than ever to Picciola, 
who still drooped and hung her head. 

Colonel Morand’s rage against man and plant was so 
entirely assuaged that he sent Ludovic every morning to 
inquire if he could do anything for the prisoner and 
to ask after Picciola. 

Thanks to this friendly feeling, Charney obtained pens, 
ink, and paper, to set down anew from memory his obser- 
vations and studies in plant life ; for the letter from the 
Governor of Turin did not cancel the search and capture ; 
the police spies bore off his records on linen, and, after 
careful examination, declaring that "they were quite unable 
to find the key to this correspondence,” they despatched 
it all to Paris, to the chief of police, to be deciphered by 
men more skilful and more expert than they. 

Charney suffered another privation, far more important, 
for its loss was not so readily supplied. 

The colonel, to avenge himself on Girhardi for General 
Menou’s reproaches of his want of vigilance, removed the 

130 


PICCIOLA. 


131 


Italian to another part of the fortress. This separation, 
which left the old man totally alone, filled Charney with 
remorse and neutralized the favors which he received. 

He spent most of the day with his eyes on the grating 
and the closed window. He fancied that he still saw the 
good old man stand there, his arm pushed through the 
bars in a vain attempt to grasp a friendly hand ; he saw 
his petition to the Emperor drawn up by a string, passing 
from him to Girhardi, from Girhardi to Teresa, from Teresa 
to the Empress ; and behind those bars there once more 
shone and beamed that look of pardon and pity which so 
lately upheld him in his bitterest agony, and he heard that 
cry of joy from a broken heart when Picciola’s pardon 
came at last ! 

It is to him, to them that he owes that pardon, and for 
that rash attempt, by which Charney alone could benefit; 
they only were punished, cruelly punished ! Poor father ! 
poor daughter ! 

She, too, often appeared to him in the very place where 
he had once caught a glimpse of her on waking from that 
painful dream which foretold the death of his plant. On 
that day, in his confusion and distress, he thought he 
recognized in her all the features of the Picciola of his 
dreams, and so he seems to see her now. 

As the prisoner cherished these sweet visions, his eyes 
still bent on the former abode of Girhardi, something 
moved behind the dim panes; the little window is opened; 
a woman stands behind the bars. She has a dark, muddy 
skin, a huge goitre, a cruel, avaricious look in her eyes. 

It is Ludovic’s wife. 

Thenceforth Charney saw no more visions there. 


CHAPTER II. 


Freed from her shackles, planted in rich earth, with 
ample space about her, Picciola recovered from her injuries, 
held up her head, and rose triumphant from all her woes. 
Still, she had lost all her blossoms save the tiny flower, 
the last to bloom, at the foot of the stalk. 

Now that she had ample space, now that her seeds were 
swelling and ripening, Charney looked forward to new and 
splendid discoveries, and even dreamed of the dies semi- 
nalis, the day for sowing the seed ! For he had now 
abundant garden room; there was more than enough for 
Picciola ; she may become a mother and see her children 
flourish in her shade ! 

While awaiting that great day, he is seized with a desire 
to know the true name of the companiop with whom he 
had passed so many happy moments. 

" What ! am I never to give Picciola, the poor foundling, 
the name allotted her by science or by everyday custom, 
which she bears in common with her sisters of the fields 
or the mountains ? ” 

Charney mentioned to the colonel, who came to see 
him, his desire for some work on botany. Although not 
objecting to this, the colonel, to throw the responsibility 
upon some one else, wrote to the Governor of Turin for 
leave to grant the request ; and Menou not only granted 
it at once, but he sent a quantity of books from the Turin 
library, to help the prisoner in his researches, . . . " hoping,” 
he wrote, "that Her Majesty the Empress and Queen, 

132 


PICCIOLA. 


133 


herself highly skilled in this branch of knowledge, as in 
so many others, would be pleased to learn the name of the 
flower in which she had taken so lively an interest.” 

Charney smiled when he saw the mass of learning 
brought him by Ludovic, bending under the load. 

" Is such heavy artillery needed,” he said, "to force the 
flower to tell me her name ? ” 

And yet it was with a sense of pleasure that he once 
more handled a book. He turned the pages with the 
same thrill of curiosity which he used to feel when knowl- 
edge was to him a mysterious and highly desirable thing. 
The only knowledge which he now craves is that of 
flowers, that of Nature in her most graceful expression. 

"If ever I leave these walls,” he thinks, "I will be a 
botanist ! ” 

Although somewhat appalled by the array of learning 
before him, he is not discouraged ; and in preparation for 
his search he opens the smallest volume, to see by the 
index how many names a plant might bear. 

How he longed to be free to choose from this calendar 
of flowers between Alcea, Alisma, Andryala, Bromelia, 
Celosia, Coronilla, Euphrasia, Helvella, Passiflora, Primula, 
Santolina, and other names sweet to the lip, melodious 
to the ear ! 

He had a sudden dread that his plant might bear some 
odd and ugly name, with a masculine or neuter ending, 
which would have upset all his ideas in regard to his 
friend and comrade. 

What would become of the maiden of his dreams if he 
had to give her some such title as Hydrocharis morsns 
ranee, or Satyrinm Nyoscyanus , or Gossypium, Cynoglossum 


134 


PIC C/OLA. 


or Cucubalus , Ceuchrus , Ruscus ! or even some name in 
plain English, more barbarous yet, like rest-harrow, fly- 
trap, sow-head, crane’s-bill, dog’s-tooth, mouse-ear, cat-tail, 
snapdragon, goat’s beard, hart’s-tongue, or cuckoo-pint! 
Would not that be enough to disenchant him forever? 
No ! he would not risk such a test ! 

And yet, in spite of this resolve, he took up each volume 
in turn, opened it and turned the leaves, lost in wonder at 
the countless marvels of nature, annoyed by the systematic 
mind of men, which turned that study, hitherto so attract- 
ive to him, into the sternest, most technical, and most 
confusing of all sciences ! 

For a whole long week he tried to analyze his plant, so 
that he might find out its name ; but all in vain. In the 
midst of his experiments, a thousand times repeated, the 
tiny flower, the solitary flower, questioned petal by petal, 
searched to its very calyx, suddenly dropped apart in the 
hand of the analyzer, the dissector, and fell, bearing with 
it all his plans for studying the seed, his hopes of seed 
time, and of future generations of Picciolas ! 

Charney stood in silent consternation ; then, with a 
trembling voice and angry glance, addressing the books 
which lay open on his knee and about him, he exclaimed : 
"Why should I consult you? Her name is 'Picciola!’ 
Nothing but ' Picciola ! ’ the prisoner’s plant, his comforter, 
his friend ! Why should she need another name, and why 
should I care to know ? Fool ! Is there no cure for this 
thirst after knowledge, ... no certain remedy ? ” 

And with an impulse of wrath, snatching up the books 
one after the other, he flung them to the ground. A 
scrap of paper fell from the leaves of one of them and flut- 


PICCIOLA. 


135 


tered to the floor. Charney caught it up. It contained 
these words, freshly written, in a woman’s hand: 

" Hope , and bid thy neighbor hope , for I forget thee not , 
neither him nor thee ! ” 

( Gospel according to St. Matthew.) 


CHAPTER III. 


Charney read and reread this note, the meaning of 
which was unmistakable ; for one only among women 
had been all love and devotion to him, and that woman he 
had scarcely seen ; he had never heard her voice ; and had 
she appeared suddenly before him, he would probably not 
have recognized her. But how had she eluded the vigi- 
lance of his Argus ^eyed gaolers, how had she managed to 
transmit these lines to him ? ” Bid thy neighbor hope. . . 
Poor girl ! she dared not use her father’s name. Poor 
father! he could not even show him this token of his 
daughter’s affection. 

As he thought of the good old man, whose cup of 
bitterness he had filled, and whose grief he was for- 
bidden to soothe, he was pierced with regret, and the 
sad image of Girhardi was often before him in his 
sleepless nights. 

During one of these wakeful nights he heard an unusual 
noise over his head, in a cell which had hitherto been 
vacant, and his mind was filled with conjectures, each 
more absurd than the other. 

Towards morning Ludovic came to his cell with a pre- 
occupied air, and although he tried to control his features, 
his eager, shining eyes showed that he had a great piece 
of news to tell. 

1 Argus was a prince of Argos, a town of ancient Greece (now Planitza); 
he had a hundred eyes, fifty of which were always open. He was killed by 
Mercury, and Juno transferred his eyes to the tail of her peacock. 

*36 


PICCIOLA. 


137 


" What is it ? ” said Charney; "and what was going on 
upstairs last night?” 

"Oh! nothing, Signor Conte; nothing, only we took in 
a fresh lot of prisoners yesterday, and there are no more 
empty cells. Yes,” he went on in a tone bordering on 
commiseration, "you will have to share the pleasure of 
your courtyard with a fellow captive ; but, never fear, we 
have none but good people here. . . . When I say good 
people,” he hastily resumed, " I mean there are no thieves 
among them ! But stay, here ’s the new inmate coming 
to pay you a visit.” » 

At this unexpected announcement Charney sprang up 
in surprise, not knowing whether- to regret or to rejoice 
in this change, when Girhardi entered suddenly. 

Without a word the two rushed together ; their clasped 
hands bore witness to their joy, and their hearts met in a 
single glance. 

"Well, well,” said Ludovic with a laugh, "I see that 
the ice will be soon broken ” ; and he left them lost in 
ecstasy. 

After an expressive silence Charney asked : " Who can 
have united us ? ” 

" My daughter, beyond a doubt ! Who else could it 
be ? Does not every pleasure that comes to me come 
from her ? ” 

Charney bowed his head in confusion, and his hands 
again grasped those of the old man. Drawing a slip of 
paper from his dressing case, he handed it to him. 

" Do you know that writing ? ” 

" It is hers ! ” cried Girhardi ; " it is my daughter’s 
hand ! my Teresa’s hand ! No, she has not forgotten us, 


138 


PICCIOLA. 


and her promise is already fulfilled, for we are together. 
But how did you get this note ? ” 

Charney told him, and then without thinking he made 
a motion to take back the paper ; but seeing Girhardi 
hold it in his hands trembling with emotion, read it 
slowly, word by word, letter by letter, and kiss it again 
and again, he felt that it no longer belonged to him, 
and he felt a vague sense of regret which he could not 
explain to himself. 

The first few moments passed, when they had exhausted 
all their conjectures in regard to Teresa, her fate, and her 
abode, Girhardi, surveying his host’s apartment with 
simple curiosity, paused to read each inscription on the 
wall. 

The newcomer readily believed that it was due to the 
influence of the plant that two of these maxims had been 
changed, and he appreciated the importance of the part 
that she had played to the prisoner. He took up a piece 
of charcoal in his turn. 

One of the maxims contained these words : 

" Men dwell upon the earth as later they will lie be- 
neath its surface, side by side, but with no connecting 
link. To the physical man this world is a crowded 
arena, where he is continually running into his neigh- 
bor; to the spiritual man it is a desert.” 

He added : 

" If he be friendless ! ” 

Then, turning to his companion, he opened his arms to 
him. 

Still moved by the thoughts which had stirred him, his 
heart throbbing, his eyes moist, Charney fell upon the old 


PICCIOLA. 


139 


man’s neck, and the holy bond of friendship was sealed 
by a long, close embrace. 

Mutual confidences were soon exchanged. They loved 
each other so well already, although they scarcely knew 
each other. Charney recounted the ambitious tastes and 
the vainglorious follies of his youth. The old man in 
his turn took up the word, and confessed even the errors 
of his early life. 


CHAPTER IV. 


The two prisoners had soon no secrets between them. 
After rapidly rehearsing the chief events of their life, they 
went over it in detail, imparting each to the other even 
the slightest emotions which he had felt. 

They talked of Teresa too, but at that name Charney 
blushed and felt confused ; the old man grew thoughtful 
and a brief silence, sad and solemn, always accompanied 
the memory of the absent angel. 

Nor was Picciola forgotten amidst their effusions. The 
two friends had built a larger, more convenient bench close' 
beside her. Here they sat together before the plant, and 
they felt that there was a third party to the conversation. 
They called this bench the lecturer s bench , for there the 
teacher and his pupil sat : the teacher was the one who 
knew the least, but knew -the best; the teacher was Gir- 
hardi ; the pupil was Charney ; and Picciola was the book. 

Autumn was at hand ; they sat in their accustomed 
place ; Charney, losing all hope that Picciola would blos- 
som again, expressed his regret to his friend that the last 
flower should have fallen, and Girhardi, to atone for this 
loss, detailed to him the general features of the fructifica- 
tion of plants. 

He told him how water plants, the ornament of rivulets 
and lakes, assume a form for their seeds which permits 
them to float on the water, so that they may take root on 
the slopes of the river bank or on either shore; how, 
when their weight draws them down, it is in order that 

140 


PICCIOLA. 


141 


they may grow in the bed of the stream or the rich soil 
of the swamp ; how, failing seeds, they multiply by means 
of roots and cuttings. All these and many other won- 
ders of the vegetable world he unfolded to Charney’s 
attentive ear. 

" What ! ” cried Charney, " such things exist, and the 
majority of men do not condescend to turn their gaze 
that way ! ” 

This was but one of the old man’s lessons. 

" My friend,” said Charney as they sat together on 
their bench, * can the insects which you have made your 
favorite study, show you as many marvels as Picciola has 
revealed to me ? ” 

"Quite as many,” was the reply. "Believe me, you 
will never fully appreciate your Picciola until you learn 
to know those lively little creatures which buzz and hum 
about her. Then only you will see the varied relations, 
the secret laws which connect the insect and the plant, 
and link both plant and insect with the rest of the world ; 
for all are born of the same Will, all are governed by the 
same Intelligence ! ” 

As Girhardi spoke he suddenly paused, his eyes fixed 
on Picciola. 

A gay-colored butterfly rested on one of her branches, 
its wings quivering with a peculiar motion. 

"What is it, friend ? ” 

" I think,” said the master, " that Picciola will help me 
to answer your first question. Watch that butterfly. 
While I speak it has compelled your plant to seal a com- 
pact. Yes, for it has deposited the hope of its posterity 
upon one of her branches.” 


142 


PICCIOLA. 


Charney bent to verify the statement. The butterfly 
flew off, leaving its eggs covered with a sticky substance 
which bound them securely to the bark. 

"Well!” added Girhardi, "was it by chance, by mere 
accident, that the butterfly confided her precious deposit 
to Picciola’s care ? Beware of the thought ! Nature 
reserves a particular species of plant for each kind of 
insect. Every plant has its guest to feed and lodge. 
Now, see how striking that butterfly’s action is. It was 
first a caterpillar, and while a caterpillar it fed upon the 
substance of a plant like this ; later on it went through 
its various changes ; faithless to its first affections, it 
roved from flower to flower. But when the time came to 
lay its eggs, this little creature, that never knew a mother, 
and will never see its children (for its work is done and it 
must die), untaught by experience, therefore, it confides its 
eggs to a plant like that upon which it fed itself in another 
form and at a different season. It knows that tiny cater- 
pillars will come forth from its eggs, and for them it forgets 
its roving butterfly habits. Who taught it these things ? 
Who endowed it with memory, reason, and power to recog- 
nize that plant whose leaves are now quite unlike what 
they were in the spring ? The wisest eyes may be mistaken 
in such matters ; but the insect never makes a mistake ! ” 

Charney was about to express his surprise. 

"Oh ! this is not all,” Girhardi broke in. "Look at the 
branch which it has chosen. It is one of the oldest and 
strongest ; for the new shoots, weak and frail, might be 
frozen or broken by the blasts of winter. This, too, the 
little creature knows. Once more I ask you, who taught 
it this?” 


PIC CIO LA. 


143 


Charney was confounded. 

" Forgive me,” he said ; w I fear you may be carried 
away by some system, by some prejudice.” 

" Silence, sceptic,” cried the old man with one of his 
subtle smiles. " Perhaps you will believe your own eyes ! 
Mark me well, Picciola will play her part in her turn ! 
Next spring we can verify the miracle together,” he said, 
restraining a sigh at the thought of his daughter. " Then, 
when Picciola’ s first leaves come forth, the little worms in 
the eggs will break their shells. No doubt you know that 
the buds of various shrubs do not all open at the same 
time ; the same is the case with the eggs of the various 
species of butterflies ; but here a law of unity governs the 
growth of plant and insect alike. If the worms came out 
before the leaves, they would have nothing to eat ; if the 
leaves came forward before the baby caterpillars, the latter 
would be unable to devour them with their delicate man- 
dibles. This could never be; Nature never errs ! Every 
plant in its progress follows the development of the insect 
which it is destined to feed ; the one opens her buds 
when the eggs of the other open ; and having grown and 
strengthened together, they unfold their flowers and their 
wings together ! ” 

" Picciola ! Picciola ! ” whispered Charney, " you did not 
tell me all ! ” 

Thus each day brought its own lesson ; at night the 
captives returned, each to his own cell, to await the com- 
ing of sleep or to think, unknown to each other, of one 
and the same object — of the old man’s daughter. What 
had befallen her since she was exiled from her father s 
prison ? 


144 


PIC CIO LA. 


Teresa had first followed the Emperor to Milan ; but 
there she soon found by experience that it is some- 
times easier to traverse an army than an antechamber. 
However, Girhardi’s friends, spurred on by her, renewed 
their efforts, promised to obtain his pardon erelong; and 
Teresa, more at ease, returned to Turin, where a relative 
had offered her a home. 

This relative’s husband was city librarian. To him 
Menou intrusted the choice of books to be sent to Fenes- 
trella. The nature of these books led Teresa to guess 
for whom they were intended. Hence the insertion of 
that little note whose mystical form could not injure 
either her father or his friend. 

At that time she did not know that the two were 
separated; and when the news reached her through the 
messenger who carried the books, alarmed at the results 
of total solitude upon the old man, her heart was full of 
one desire only — the reunion of the two captives! 

Some time later, being presented to the wife of General 
Menou, she thanked her and expressed her deep grati- 
tude, when the old general, touched by her filial devotion, 
departed for an instant from his usual harshness, took 
her hand affectionately in his, and said : 

"Come to see me now and then, or rather come to see 
my wife. Perhaps within a month she may have some 
good news for you ! ” 

Teresa supposed that she was to be allowed to return 
to Fenestrella, to spend part of her time with her father; 
she threw herself at the general’s feet and thanked him 
again and again, her face radiant with joy ! 


CHAPTER V. 


On a fine sunny day in October, one of those days 
which remind one of spring, Girhardi and Charney were 
seated on their bench. Both silent and thoughtful, they 
seemed to pay no heed each to the other, but the Count’s 
eye, filled with interest and ajixiety, turned ever and anon 
to his companion, wholly absorbed in deep revery. Gir- 
hardi’s features seldom wore the look of gloom. Charney 
might well mistake its cause. 

"Yes, yes,” he exclaimed, suddenly breaking the long 
silence ; " captivity is horrible ! horrible ! when it is un- 
deserved ! To live apart from the one we love can scarcely 
be called living ! ” 

Girhardi looked up, and in his turn casting off his pen- 
sive mood : 

" Separation is the great trial of life ; is it not, my 
friend ? ” 

"Your friend!” replied the Count; "can you indeed 
call me your friend ? Was it not I who parted you from 
her ? Can you ever forget it ? Ah ! do not deny it ; you 
were thinking of your daughter, and as you thought of 
her you must needs turn from me ! I understand that 
when such thoughts come to you, the sight of me must 
be hateful to you ! ” 

"You are strangely mistaken as to the cause of my 
meditation,” said the old man. " Perhaps my thoughts of 
my daughter were never more soothing than to-day, for 
she has written to me, and I have her letter!” 

MS 


146 


PICCIOLA. 


" Is it possible ? She has written to you ? And it was 
allowed ! ” 

Charney moved towards the happy father with an im- 
pulse of delight at once restrained : " But did her letter 
bring you bad news ? ” 

"Not at all; . . . on the contrary.” 

" Then why so sad ? ” 

"Alas ! How can I tell, my friend ? Man is so consti- 
tuted. Regret is always mingled with our fairest hopes ! 
Our earthly pleasures always cast their shadow before 
them, and our eye falls first upon that shadow! You 
spoke of separation ! . . . here, take this letter ; read it 
and you will guess why this morning a sense of sadness 
overcame me as I sat beside you.” 

Charney took the letter and for some time held it un- 
opened. His eyes upon Girhardi, he seemed trying to 
read its contents in his dear companion’s face; then he 
studied the address and was pleasantly stirred by the 
well-known hand. At last, unfolding the sheet, he tried 
to read it aloud ; but his voice shook, the words parched 
his lips as he uttered them ; he stopped short, and finished 
the letter to himself. It read as follows : 

" Dear Father, — 

"Kiss the letter which you now hold in your hands 
over and over ; I have kissed it again and again, and it 
contains a whole harvest of kisses for you ! ” 

" Oh ! be sure I did so,” murmured Girhardi. . . . 
"Dear girl!” 

Charney went on : 

"It is a great delight to you, as well as to me, is it not, 


PICCIOLA. 


147 


that we are at last allowed to correspond ? We must be 
eternally grateful to General Menou. For it is he who 
has put an end to the silence which parted us even more 
effectually than distance. Blessings on his head ! Hence- 
forth our thoughts at least may meet ; I shall tell you my 
hopes and they will cheer and comfort you; you will tell 
me your griefs, and while I weep for them I shall feel 
that I weep with you ! But, dear father, what if a greater 
favor still were in store for us ? . . . Oh ! I implore you, 
lay down this letter for a few moments and, before you 
read farther, prepare your soul for the sudden joys which 
I have yet to tell you ! . . . Father, what if I were per- 
mitted to rejoin you ! ... to see you from time to time, to 
hear your voice, to watch over you ! For two years those 
pleasures were all I asked, and captivity appeared a slight 
thing to you ! Well ! if my hope be realized, ... I shall 
soon return to that prison from which I was exiled ! ” 

"She is coming back ! What ! here ! To be with you ?” 
Charney broke in with a rapturous cry. 

" Read, read,” was the sad reply. 

Charney re-read the last sentence and continued : 

" I shall soon return to that prison from which I was 
exiled ! . . . You are happy now, very happy, I know. 
Dwell a little longer upon that comforting idea. . . . 
Your daughter, your Teresa, entreats you ! do not be too 
eager to reach the end of this letter. Too great an emo- 
tion is sometimes dangerous ! Is not what I have told 
you enough ? Had an angel come down from heaven to 
grant your wishes, you would not have ventured to ask 
for more. ... I, more exacting perhaps, before he took 
his flight, should plead with him for your liberty, for your 


148 


PICCIOLA. 


complete delivery ! At your age it is so hard to be 
deprived of the sight of your native land ! The banks of 
the Doria are so fair, and the trees planted in your garden 
by my dead mother and my poor brother have grown so 
much ! There their memory is more vivid than else- 
where ! Then you must regret your friends, your friends 
whose generous efforts have done so much to aid my 
feeble attempts. . . . Oh ! father, father, the pen burns 
my fingers ; my secret will escape. It has already es- 
caped, no doubt 1 I beseech you, be strong, for happi- 
ness is at hand ! In a few days I shall join you, not alone 
to soothe your captivity but to put an end to it ! Not to 
spend a few hours with you within prison walls, but to 
lead you forth free and unabashed! Yes, unabashed! 
You well may be unabashed; for your faithful Delarue 
and Cotenna have obtained, not your pardon, but justice, 
full reparation ! 

"Farewell, dearest father; oh ! how I love you, and how 
happy 1 am ! Teresa.” 


There was not a word, a single word of remembrance for 
Charney in the letter. He anxiously sought for one such 
word as he read ; and yet, in spite of his disappointment 
at not finding it, his first outburst was one of rapture. 

"You will be free! ” he cried; "and you can lie in the 
shade of green trees and see the sun rise ! ” 

" Yes,” said the old man, "I shall ; . . . I shall leave you ! 
And this is the cloud which darkens my happiness and 
almost hides it ! ” 

"What does that matter?” rejoined Charney, proving 
by the vehemence of his transports and his generous 


PICCIOLA. 


149 


forgetfulness of self how worthy he had become to under- 
stand what friendship was : " You will be restored to her 
at last ! She will cease to suffer for my fault ; you will 
be happy, and I shall no longer feel this weight upon my 
soul ! For the short space yet left us to talk together we 
can at least talk of her ! ” 

The last words were uttered in the arms of his old 
friend ! 


CHAPTER VI. 


Charney’s blood now flowed more calmly; his thoughts 
were gentler, more soothing, more affectionate. Like the 
wise Piedmontese, he felt a vague desire to open his heart 
to affection. He dreamed with ecstasy of the beings 
whom, by a tie of gratitude or friendship, he might bind 
to him. 

Among them Josephine, Girhardi, and Ludovic first 
presented themselves to people his celestial world ; then 
two feminine shades appeared at either end of that rain- 
bow of love which came after the storm. One of these 
shadows was the fairy of his dreams, Picciola the maiden, 
the fair image born of the perfumes of his flower; the 
other the angel of his prison, his second providence, 
Teresa Girhardi. 

By a strange contrast the former, who only existed for 
him as an ideal being, was yet the only one to stand out 
distinctly in his memory. He could see her frown slightly, 
her eye brighten, her mouth smile. Such as he saw her 
in a vision, such he could always see her. As for Teresa, 
never having noticed her particularly, under what form 
could he portray her? Her face was veiled; and if he 
strove to lift the veil, it was still Picciola’s face which 
appeared before him — Picciola, suddenly made manifold, 
do what he would, as if to receive the homage meant for 
her rival. 

One morning the prisoner, wide awake, thought him- 
self the victim of this singular delusion. 

* 5 ° 


P/CC/OLA. 


151 


Day was breaking ; he had already dressed and was 
thinking of Girhardi. The latter, feeling that his delivery 
was at hand, had accompanied his good-night with such 
touching expressions of regret that the Count could not 
sleep all night, the idea of the parting pained him so much. 
As he paced his cell he mechanically turned his eyes 
towards the bench, where, the night before, he had talked 
with the father, of the daughter, when in the prison yard, 
upon that self-same bench, through a thin autumn mist, 
he suddenly saw a young woman seated. She was alone 
and, in a graceful attitude, seemed to be gazing at the 
plant. 

Charney instantly thought of Teresa, of her arrival. 

"It is she!” he said to himself; "and I shall see her 
for a moment, never to see her again ! and my old friend 
will go with her ! ” 

As he spoke the young woman turned her head his 
way; and the face which he then saw was once more, 
again and always, that of Picciola ! 

He put his hand to his head in amazement, rubbed his 
eyes, touched his clothes, the cold bars of his window, to 
assure himself that it was now no dream. 

The young woman rose, moved towards him, and, smiling 
and blushing, greeted him with a shy bow. Charney 
returned neither the bow nor the smile; he stared at the 
graceful figure as it moved through the mist ; it was 
indeed the same that he had seen at the entertainments 
given him by Picciola ; those were the features which 
haunted his dreams and his waking thoughts. Believing 
himself a prey to feverish delirium, he threw himself on 
his bed to recover his senses. 


152 


PICCIOLA. 


A few minutes later the door opened and Ludovic 
entered. 

" OhimZ! ohimZ!^ good and bad news both, Signor 
Conte /” he exclaimed; "one of my birds is about to fly 
away, not over the walls, but out at the door. So much 
the better for him, so much the worse for you ! ” 

" What ! is it to be to-day then ? ” 

"I think not, Signor Conte. But it can’t be long, for 
the paper has been signed at Paris, I hear, and it is on its 
way to Turin. At least so th e giovanna 2 told her father 
just now.” 

" What ! ” cried Charney, sitting up, " has she come ? Is 
she here ? ” 

" She reached Fenestrella last night with a permit, in 
regular form, to enter. Unfortunately, the rules do not 
allow of my lowering the drawbridge for a woman at so 
late an hour ; she had to put off her visit till to-day. I 
knew she was here ; but cap de Diotis ! I took care not 
to let the poor old fellow know ; he would not have slept 
a wink, and the time would have seemed unending, if he 
had known that his daughter was so near him ! She was 
up this morning before the sun and came here at dawn, 
to wait in all the fog at the gates of the fortress, good 
creature that she is ! ” 

" But,” broke in Charney, confused and amazed, " did 
she not spend some time in the courtyard seated on that 
bench?” 

And he sprang to the window, looked eagerly into the 
court, and again turning to Ludovic : 

" She is no longer there ! ” he said. 


1 Alas ! alas ! 


Young lady. 


PICCIOLA. 


153 


" Of course she is not there now, but she was there,” 
was the reply. "Yes, she waited there while I went up 
to prepare the good man for her visit, lest he should die 
of joy. Joy, it seems, is like strong drink ; a little drop 
now and again is excellent, but it is bad to empty the 
bottle at a single draught. Now they are together, very 
happy, both of them ; and when I saw them so happy, per 
Bacco, I thought of you, Signor Conte , of you, who will 
soon be left alone ; and I came in to remind you that you 
will still have Ludovic and Picciola too. She is beginning 
to lose her leaves, but that is owing to the season ; you 
must not despise her for that.” 

And he left the room without waiting for Charney’s 
answer. 

The latter, not yet recovered from his surprise and 
emotion, tried to explain his strange vision ; he at last 
began to think that the sweet features worn by Picciola 
the maiden might really have been only those of Teresa, 
once seen by him at the grated window, and her image 
doubtless unconsciously repeated in his dreams. 

As he reasoned thus, the hum of voices reached his ear ; 
he heard upon the stairs, together with the familiar steps 
of the old man, a light tread which hardly touched the 
stone. The sounds soon stopped at his door. He trem- 
bled ; but Girhardi alone appeared. 

"She is here,” he said, "and she is waiting for us 
beside the plant.” 

Charney silently followed him, unable to utter a word, 
his heart filled with uneasiness rather than with pleasure. 

Was it embarrassment at appearing before the woman 
to whom he owed everything, and whom he could never 


154 


P/CCIOLA. 


hope to repay ? Did he remember how he had received 
her bow and smile that very morning? Now that the 
parting was so near, did his courage and his resignation 
fail him ? 

Whether owing to these causes or to many others as 
well, when he stood before her no one would have recog- 
nized the brilliant Count de Charney by his manners and 
his language ; the polished ease of the man of the world, 
the composure of the philosopher gave way to a stammer- 
ing voice and awkward mien, to which no doubt were due 
the coldness and reserve shown by Teresa. 

Notwithstanding all Girhardi’s efforts to establish 
friendly relations between his daughter and his fellow 
captive, the conversation at first turned only upon com- 
monplaces. Recovering from his first confusion, Charney 
read nothing but indifference on Teresa’s calm features, 
and readily persuaded himself that in rendering him such 
service she had merely obeyed the dictates of her adven- 
turous nature or the orders of her father. 

He almost regretted seeing her ; for should he ever 
regain his former delight in thinking of her ? 

As they all three sat on the bench, Girhardi, absorbed 
in gazing at his daughter, and Charney, uttering a few 
cold and broken phrases, Teresa made a motion towards 
her father, and a large locket, hanging from her neck and 
hidden in the folds of her dress, fell out. Charney could 
not help seeing in it, on one side the white hair of an old 
man, on the other a faded flower, carefully preserved 
under the glass. It was the flower which he sent her by 
Ludovic. 

What ! she had kept that flower, preserved, placed it 


PICCIOLA. 


155 


as a precious relic with the hair of her idolized father ! 
Picciola’s flower no longer gleamed from the maiden’s 
hair ; it rested on her heart ! 

This sight completely changed Charney’s feelings. 

He again began to consider Teresa, as if she had been 
transformed before his eyes, and he hoped to discover in 
her that which had not previously appeared. Indeed, her 
face, turned to the old man, was radiant with a double 
expression of tenderness and serenity ; she was beautiful, 
as Raphael’s Madonnas are beautiful, as pure and loving 
souls are beautiful ! He was lost in admiration ! It was 
so long since he had seen a human face so resplendent 
with the radiance of youth, beauty, and goodness ! After 
gazing long at the lovely girl, his eyes again turned eagerly 
to the locket. 

"Then you did not scorn my poor gift ?” he murmured. 

Low as was his whisper, Teresa turned quickly towards 
him ; her first impulse was to replace the trinket ; but, in 
her turn, she studied the change which had taken place 
in the Count’s face, and both blushed at once. 

"What is the matter, my child?” asked Girhardi, see- 
ing her confusion. 

"Nothing,” said she; and at once correcting herself, 
as if she feared to deny even to herself a pure and honor- 
able emotion : " We were speaking of this locket. . . . 
Look, father, this is your hair.” Then, turning to Char- 
ney : " See, sir, this is the flower which you sent me, and 
which I have kept, . . . which I shall always keep ! ” 

There was such frankness and modesty in her words, in 
her tone, in the instinct which led her to address her 
explanation to her father as well as to the stranger, that 


156 


P ICC 10 LA . 


Charney felt a thrill of rapture such as he had never before 
experienced. 

The rest of the day was spent in the effusions of a 
friendship which seemed to grow with every moment that 
passed. 

Charney and Teresa had never before spoken to each 
other ; but they had thought of each other so much, and 
so few hours were yet left to them ! Accordingly, when 
Charney, out of good breeding, offered to leave them lest 
the presence of a stranger might annoy them, Teresa 
exclaimed : 

"Why should you leave us ? ” holding him by a look, 
while Girhardi detained him by a gesture. "You are no 
stranger to my father ... or to me!” she added in an 
enchanting tone of reproach. 

To show him how little his presence disturbed them, 
she began to tell all that had happened since she left Fen- 
estrella, and what means she had taken to reunite the two 
prisoners. When her story was ended she begged Char- 
ney to begin his tale, and to tell her how he spent his 
days and of his tasks for Picciola. 

Girhardi, seated between the two, holding in one hand 
the hand of the daughter just restored to him, and in the 
other that of the friend he was about to leave, listened, 
and looked at each in turn with a mixture of joy and 
sorrow. But now and then the old man’s hands met, and 
by the same movement those of Charney and Teresa. 
Then the young people, agitated and embarrassed, would 
cease talking. At last the young girl, without any appear- 
ance of prudery or affectation, gently freed her hand, and 
laying it on her father’s shoulder, and resting her head 


PICCIOLA. 


157 


on it in a graceful attitude, turned, smiling, to Charney 
as if to beg him to go on. 

Encouraged, carried away by so much favor and free- 
dom from restraint, he ventured to relate his visions of 
his plant. As I have said, they were the great events of 
his life during his solitude. He described the enchant- 
ing maiden in whom Picciola was personified, and as he 
eagerly, lovingly sketched her likeness, Teresa’s face grad- 
ually lost its smile and she sighed as she listened. 

The narrator took care not to mention the original of 
the sweet image ; but as he closed the story and the woes 
of his plant, he recalled the instant when, by the colonel’s 
order, the dying Picciola was about to be torn from the 
earth before his very eyes. 

" Poor Picciola ! ” exclaimed Teresa with tears in her 
eyes ; " oh ! you belong to me too, dear little creature ! 
for I had a share in your rescue.” 

And Charney, overwhelmed with joy, thanked her in 
his heart for this adoption, which established a sacred 
bond between them. 


CHAPTER VII. 


Charney would gladly and forever have renounced free- 
dom, fortune, and society if his days might be passed like 
this one, in a prison with Teresa and her father. He 
loved this girl as he had never loved before. This emotion, 
hitherto a stranger to his soul, now entered there at once 
violent and sweet, bitter and savory, like some sour fruit 
which perfumes whilst it makes the lips smart. He felt 
an unknown ecstasy, outbursts of affection which embraced 
God, humanity, and the whole universe. 

Next day the three were again seated in the courtyard 
beside the plant, — the two friends on the bench, Teresa 
facing them, on a chair which Ludovic had considerately 
provided. 

She was busy with needlework, and with a lively expres- 
sion of satisfaction, following the motion of her needle 
with her head, lifting her eyes as she raised her hand, she 
smiled now at her father and now at Charney, interrupt- 
ing their grave discourse with an occasional frivolous 
remark. Then she rose, and regardless of the fact, that 
she was breaking in upon their conversation, she clasped 
her father in her arms and kissed him. 

The conversation, thus cut short, was not resumed. 
Charney sank into a deep revery. 

"Does Teresa love him? ” He dreads to think so ; he 
shudders to doubt it ! 

She has kept the flower which he gave her, and has 
promised to keep it forever ; she was confused when their 

! 5 8 


PICCIOLA. 


159 


hands met the day before in the old man’s lap; she sighed 
at the story of his visions; but the words which she ut- 
tered in so tender a voice were spoken in her father’s 
presence. How shall he interpret all these charming 
sighs ; as proof of pity, interest, or devotion? Did she 
not give proofs of these before that interview, when their 
eyes had never met, when as yet they had never exchanged 
a word? Mad fool ! Mad fool ! To dream that he has 
so soon found a place in that heart wholly occupied by 
filial affection ! 

What matter? He loves her; he will always love her, 
and will take this angelic reality in place of the ideal 
image which no longer satisfies him. 

He will keep his love hidden ; to try to win a return 
would be a crime. Why should he poison her happy 
future ? Are they not fated to dwell apart ? She joyous 
and free in a world where erelong she will choose a hus- 
band ; he alone in his prison, alone with Picciola and the 
memory of a brief moment ! 

His mind is made up ; from this day, from this moment, 
he will affect indifference to Teresa, or at least he will 
cloak himself in a false semblance of calm, quiet friend- 
ship. Woe to him, woe to them both, if she should love 
him ! 

Full of these fine schemes, his ear was caught by a few 
sentences interchanged by Girhardi and his daughter. The 
old man asserted that the year would probably end before 
his captivity. 

"If you really think so,” said his daughter, "I will 
return to Turin to-morrow to hasten the fulfilment of the 
promises which your friends made me.” 


160 


PICCIOLA. 


" Why should we be in such haste ? ” replied Girhardi. 

" What ! Do you prefer your dark, narrow cell and this 
ugly courtyard to your own home and your lovely gar- 
dens?” 

Teresa’s apparent impatience to leave Fenestrella should 
have pleased Charney as showing that she did not love 
him, and that the danger which he dreaded for her was 
by no means imminent ; but, on the contrary, he was so 
disturbed as quite to forget the part he intended to play. 
He could not help showing his distress; but Teresa took 
no other notice of this than to tease him about his silence 
and his sulky look ; and she again began to argue that, if 
the pardon were delayed much longer, she must go at 
once to General Menou ; if need be, to Paris, to the 
Emperor ! 

She, usually so yielding, so reserved, seemed sud- 
denly governed by an incomprehensible desire to laugh 
and chatter. 

"What ails you to-day?” asked her father, amazed to 
see her make so merry in the presence of the poor cap- 
tive whom they were soon to leave behind them. 

Charney did not know what to think of her. 

The truth is that Teresa, too, had followed the same 
train of thought as Charney. She did not feel the ap- 
proach of love ; she knew that it had already filled her 
soul long since. Like Charney, she was ready to accept 
it for herself, with all its risks and dangers ; but, like him 
also, she dreaded it for another ! And the joy of loving, 
the fear lest she should be loved, caused these apparent 
contradictions and the flow of words with which she tried 
to still her heart. 


PICCIOLA. 


161 


Soon all these efforts, all this attempt to hide their true 
feelings, came to an end on both sides. Listening to 
Girhardi, as he told them how often he had known pris- 
oners whose pardon had been publicly announced, to wait 
for months before they were set free, they were only too 
happy to yield to his persuasions ; they would gladly have 
learned that henceforth and forever this prison was to be 
their abode ; that living there with their guardian angel, 
the only thing the prisoners had to fear was that one of 
them might be set free ! 

A faint sunbeam lit up Teresa’s face ; the wind ruffled 
her ribbons, and laying aside her work for an instant, she 
seemed to drink in at the same time light, air, and happi- 
ness, when all at once the door to the courtyard opened. 

Colonel Morand, followed by an officer and by Ludovic, 
came to tell Girhardi that he was free. He was to quit 
the fortress at once ; a carriage was waiting to take him 
and his daughter to Turin ! 

On the colonel’s entrance Teresa rose; she fell back 
into her chair, and with a glance at Charney, her color 
and her bright smile faded. Charney himself, still seated 
on the bench, kept his head down, while Girhardi listened 
to the reading of his pardon. 

The preparations for departure were very brief. 

Ludovic had already brought the old man’s trunk from 
his room. The officer was ready to escort him to Turin. 

The parting hour had come. 

Teresa rose once more and seemed absorbed in putting 
her embroidery into her bag, in arranging her neck ker- 
chief ; then she tried to put on her gloves ; . . . she could 
not manage it. 


162 


PICCIOLA. 


Charney, arming himself with courage, approached 
Girhardi, opened his arms and said, "Farewell, father!” 

" My son ! My dear son ! ” faltered his old friend. . . . 
" Keep up your courage ! Count on us. . . . Farewell ! 
Farewell ! ” 

He held him in a long, close embrace, and then, turn- 
ing to Ludovic, the better to hide his emotion, he gave 
him a few last unnecessary charges in regard to the com- 
rade who was to be left behind. Ludovic made no reply, 
but he offered his arm to the old man, for he needed a 
support. 

Meantime Charney went up to Teresa to take leave of 
her also. Her hand on the back of her chair, her eyes on 
the ground, she seemed lost in thought, as if she never 
meant to leave the spot. When she saw Charney by her 
side, waking from her revery, she surveyed him for a time 
in silence. He was pale and agitated and could not speak. 
Suddenly the young girl, forgetting her resolves, pointed 
to the prisoner’s plant : 

" I take our Picciola to witness,” . . . she said. 

She could say no more. 

One of her silk gloves which she held in her hand fell ; 
Charney picked it up, kissed and returned it to her with- 
out a word. 

Teresa took the glove, used it to dry the tears which 
flowed freely from her eyes, and giving it back to Charney 
with one last smile, she cried, "We shall meet again!” 
and drew her father away. 

They were gone, the gate had long since closed between 
them and him, but Charney still stood as if turned to stone, 
convulsively pressing Teresa’s little glove to his heart. 


CONCLUSION. 


Some philosopher has said that greatness is never appre- 
ciated until it has ceased to exist ; he might have said the 
same of health, pleasure, and all those enjoyments to which 
the soul so soon becomes accustomed. 

Never had the prisoner so fully appreciated Girhardi’s 
wisdom, his daughter’s virtues and charms, as now that 
his two guests had left him. Deep depression followed 
the ecstasy of a day. All Ludovic’s efforts, the cares 
required by Picciola, no longer sufficed to divert him ; but 
the seeds of strength and reformation sowed by his dear 
studies bore fruit at last, and the downcast man rose once 
more. 

His soul was perfected by strife. At first he blessed 
his solitude, which allowed him to spend uninterrupted 
hours in thought of his absent friends ; later on he was 
glad to see some one take the old man’s vacant seat on 
the bench. 

The first and most frequent of his visitors was the 
chaplain of the prison, the good priest, once so rudely 
repulsed. Informed by Ludovic of the prisoner’s gloom, 
he hastened, forgetful of the past, to offer his consolations, 
and they were received with gratitude. 

Better inclined towards mankind, Charney soon learned 
to like this man, and the rustic seat once more became the 
lecture bench. 

The philosopher praised the marvels of his plant, those 
of Nature, and rehearsed old Girhardi’s lessons ; the priest, 

T63 


164 


PICCIOLA. 


without entering upon the discussion of dogma, told the 
sublime story of Christ, and each upheld the other. 

The next visitor was Colonel Morand. On better 
acquaintance he proved a good fellow ; he had a soldier’s 
heart ; he never tormented his people except by order ; he 
almost reconciled Charney to petty tyrants. 

At last the day came for Charney to say good-bye to 
both priest and colonel. When he least expected it his 
prison doors were thrown open ! 

On his return from Austerlitz, Napoleon, urged by 
Josephine, who perhaps was urged by some one else inter- 
ceding for the prisoner of Fenestrella, inquired into the 
search made of Charney’s effects. 

The handkerchief manuscripts were laid before the 
Emperor, having thus far remained in the archives of 
the State department ; he looked them over carefully, 
and loudly declared that Count Charney was a fool, but 
a very harmless fool. 

"A man who thus subjects his thought to a blade of 
grass,” said he, " may make a very good botanist, but no 
conspirator. I grant his pardon; let his estates be re- 
stored to him, and let him till his own land, if such be 
his pleasure ! ” 

So Charney too was to leave Fenestrella! but he did 
not go alone. How could he leave his first, his faithful 
friend ? Transplanting her into a large box, well filled 
with rich earth, he triumphantly bore away with him his 
Picciola ! Picciola, to whom he owed his reason ; Picciola, 
who saved his life ; Picciola, in whose bosom he found 
his healing faith ; Picciola, who taught him to know friend- 
ship and even love ; Picciola, who had set him free ! 


P ICC 10 LA. 


165 


As he was about to cross the drawbridge, a broad, hard 
hand was suddenly stretched out. 

" Signor Conte” said Ludovic, struggling with his emo- 
tion, " give me your hand ; we can be friends now, since 
you are going away, since you are to leave us, since we 
shall never meet again ! . . . Thank God ! ” 

Charney would not let him finish. " We shall meet again, 
dear Ludovic ! Ludovic, my friend ! ” 

And embracing him, pressing his hand repeatedly, he 
left the fortress. 

He had crossed the parade, left behind him the hill on 
which the fortress stands, crossed the bridge that spans the 
Clusone, and had already turned into the Suza road, when 
a voice was heard calling from the top of the ramparts : 

"Good-bye, Signor Conte! Good-bye, Picciola!” 

A year later, on a bright spring day, a handsome carriage 
drew up in front of the prison at Fenestrella. A traveller 
stepped out and asked for Ludovic Ritti. 

It was the former captive come to visit his friend the 
gaoler. A lady leaned affectionately upon the traveller’s 
arm. 

The lady was Teresa Girhardi, Countess of Charney. 

Together they visited the courtyard and the cell once 
occupied by weariness, unbelief, and disillusion ! Of all 
the despairing maxims once traced on the white walls but 
one remained : 

" Knowledge , beauty , youth , fortune , all , here on earth , 
are powerless to confer happiness .” 

Teresa added : " Without love” 

A kiss, which Charney imprinted on her cheek, con- 
firmed what she had written. 


166 


PICCIOLA. 


The Count begged Ludovic to stand godfather to his 
first child, as he had to Picciola. Their errand accom- 
plished, the husband and wife returned to Turin, where 
Girhardi awaited them in his beautiful home. 

In her own special bed, warmed and lighted by the rays 
of the rising sun, Charney had planted his flower, which 
no other hand was to disturb. By his orders, he alone 
was to care for her, attend to her wants. It was an occu- 
pation, a duty, a debt, required of his gratitude. 

How quickly the days passed ! Surrounded by vast 
gardens, on the banks of a noble river, under a blue sky, 
Charney enjoyed the life of the fortunate ones of this 
earth. Time added a new charm, a new force to all his 
bonds; for custom, like the ivy on our walls, strengthens 
and binds that which it cannot destroy. Girhardi’s friend- 
ship, Teresa’s love, the blessings of all beneath his roof, 
nothing was wanting to his happiness, and the moment 
came when even this happiness increased. Charney was 
a father ! 

Oh ! then his heart overflowed with felicity ! His love 
for his daughter seemed to redouble that which he bore 
his wife. He never tired of gazing at them, of adoring 
them both. It was torture to be parted from them for an 
instant ! 

Just at this time Ludovic came in fulfilment of his 
promise ; his first thought was to visit his first god- 
daughter — the child of the prison. But, alas! amidst 
these outbursts of love, amidst the prosperity which filled 
the home, the source of all these joys, of all this happiness, 
poor Picciola, was dead, . . . dead for want of care ! 




















